


To Observe a Witcher

by brightstarlings (gingerpunches)



Series: wildflowers [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Sex, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Geralt gets hurt a lot and Jaskier is emotional about it, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Senses, like oh my god i'm sorry, sort of graphic depiction of violence, witcher biology, witcher discrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerpunches/pseuds/brightstarlings
Summary: It’s during an upbeat evening on his second night with a rowdy crowd that the unexpected happens. The door to the tavern bangs open, hitting the wall with a crack, and in staggers a sopping wet figure with two sword hilts poking over his shoulder and the head of a royal wyvern clutched in his fist.“Killed your dragon,” the figure rasps, and if his silhouette in the doorway wasn’t enough to give him away, Jaskier would recognize that rough voice anywhere.----Five times Jaskier observed a certain Witcher's senses in action, and one time his own were indulged.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: wildflowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874665
Comments: 377
Kudos: 2515
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Math





	1. Smell

**Author's Note:**

> this is a monster. this started as an exercise to get myself back into the mood for writing, and now im 25k words and 53 pages in. for that, im sorry. 
> 
> this is also a mess of canon. the timeline mostly follows the netflix show, but geralt is a mix of his personality from the games and the show. he's not as talkative as his game self but he's definitely more in tune with his emotions and how to express them than netflix!geralt. however, his physical description is much the same as henry cavill, with the added caveat of the cat's eyes from the books/games. other than that, this is set loosely after the dragon hunt, with ciri safe and sound. 
> 
> beta'd by my gf, with any remaining mistakes my own. enjoy and let me know what you think!

_ “A Witcher’s sense of smell is not one to be underestimated. As keen as a bloodhound’s, Witchers can scent their prey from miles off, often following trails several days old even after heavy rain. They’re capable of discerning how long ago a scent has gone stale, and they can determine the individual ingredients manmade scents are composed of. This ranks their olfactory tracking skills the highest amongst many, if not all, beasts. A lord’s sporting dogs are no match for a Witcher scenting a hunt, so if one is to go with one or the other, paying a Witcher to track down a monster or wayward daughter is preferable to scaring away the foxes.” _

_ — Master Belgravius, “Monsters and Those Who Hunt Them: A Guide to the Beast Known as the Witcher”, Chapter II, page 47 _

“I’m not one of your hounds.”

Geralt’s voice is quiet and sharp in the early morning mist. The lord - some Duke Alfred, if Dukes were even a thing around here, and Jaskier is pretty sure they  _ aren’t _ because they’re in  _ Velen  _ and no warlord worth their salt around here would call themselves a  _ Duke  _ \- scoffs and tugs at the reigns of his mount, wheeling it sideways to better glare with his dark, beady eyes.

“I don’t believe you have a choice in refusing,” he says. With a rattle of plate armor, he gestures to the posse of men behind him, some dozen or so on horses, another dozen lined up behind them, polearms wilting in their hands as the placards at their tips snap in the breeze. Two uneven lines of black and blue armor, all too much for a Witcher and a bard to hope of outrunning in any direction.

Geralt seems to understand this. Jaskier watches as he visibly fights to keep himself from rolling his eyes, then holds out his palm, leather glove creaking as his fingers stretch out.

“Half up front,” Geralt growls. 

“So eloquent with your words, darling,” Jaskier muses under his breath. Geralt snaps a glare in his direction, one Jaskier meets with a smile.

The Duke seems to accept this. With a wave of his wrist, a footsoldier brings forth a coin purse, light despite what this Alfred is asking. Geralt takes it without argument and shoves it into one of Roach’s saddlebags, hiding it away before it can be snatched back on second thought.

Jaskier continues to smile. My, what a morning. It’d been nice and quiet before the thunder of hoofbeats set Geralt on high alert, miles before Jaskier could think to pretend to hear what Geralt could hear. The mist left from yesterday’s rain made the forest seem dreamy instead of bristling with unknown and known threats, and while he’d usually fill the beginning of their day with chatter as they broke camp, the ethereal quality to the heavy, grey light clinging to them kept him quiet. 

It’d been nice. Geralt appreciated it in his own way, without words but thrown looks sometimes, a small tug at his lips that was more amused than teasing. Jaskier would have taken offence if not for how amendable the quiet made his Witcher. 

Besides, the smile was nice. Geralt rarely smiled, and if shutting up and enjoying the morning made them happen more often? Well.

These gentlemen, however, didn’t seem to have the same sympathies. Duke Alfred turns his horse again, looking down his nose at the both of them with something more than just normal disdain. It makes Jaskier’s skin crawl less because they were being glared at at all and more because it was aimed squarely at Geralt, derision and arrogance sharp in his pitted face. This man wanted a service, but it was apparent the cost in asking for it from a Witcher was more to him than just coin.

“You’ll do as I say,” the Duke snaps. “I won’t have you wandering like a dog off his leash. We find her and you’ll get your coin, but on my terms.”

“I can’t be searching for someone who more than likely ran away on her own with a retinue of horses following after me,” Geralt bites out. His face is evenly composed to fight the glare that normally rests there, but Jaskier has no problem doing it for him. Alfred doesn’t seem perturbed by the insult, merely shrugging.

“Then I have no problem cutting you down,” he says easily. “Do you think you can protect your bard and yourself from thirty swords pointed at your throat?”

The threat lingers in the air heavier than the mist. Jaskier smartly keeps his mouth shut, but less from the words and more from Geralt’s fingers twisting in the back of his doublet to keep him held back.

_ Easy,  _ that grip seems to say. Geralt’s taken worse insults from sharper men, but that doesn’t mean he has to take them at all. Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat, nodding slightly, and the grip on his clothes eases.

“Fine,” Geralt says. “What does she look like? When did she leave? Was she wearing anything distinctive, anything anyone would spot easily in a crowd?”

His even, quiet tone brooks no quarrel with whether these details are pertinent or not. Jaskier has watched Geralt do this enough times to know that this is done almost automatically once a deal has been struck, a switch flipping inside the Witcher, a great machination finally springing into action. Long weeks can be spent between hunts, weeks of travelling and mending and resupplying what was used and lost on a previous hunt. The great wheel of the Path rolls forward nonetheless, a monotonous necessity that must move on. Geralt eases the way with pointed questions that will gain what he needs, and then he springs forth, the destiny he was made for stretching out underneath his feet.

Jaskier likes watching it unfold. The poetry of it is undeniable, the Path, but Alfred doesn’t seem to see any of its beauty.

“Who else would pass through here besides brigands and vagabonds? Filth like you should have noticed when a girl as fair as Lillianna came through — there’s nothing here except farming hamlets and goat fuckers.”

Geralt’s mouth twists, the first true sign of annoyance he’s shown all morning. Then his eyes flicker, gaze snapping from the Duke’s sweating pate down to his waist where a snatch of fine green silk is folded neatly into his blue sash.

“That,” Geralt says. “I can find her with that.”

Jaskier watches as the Duke hands it over without argument. His grin is salacious, like he’s finally laid eyes on something delightfully disturbing, like all his dreams have been proven true. Jaskier watches as his grin turns toothy when Geralt takes the green silk and holds it up to his face, breathing deeply, the beginning of the hunt starting before any of them have taken a step.

“Here,” Geralt says. The silk is snatched back from him, tucked neatly back into Alfred’s sash, his slimy smile never leaving Geralt. Either the Witcher doesn’t notice - which is just impossible - or he’s just as equally unsettled as Jaskier, and is choosing not to show it. Jaskier would bet his lute it’s the latter.

“Follow me, but if I wander into the trees, stay back. If she’s hiding, I don’t want your men scaring her away.”

“I’ll do as I please,” Alfred says. Geralt sighs through his nose and turns away towards Roach, hiding the grimace that twitches across his mouth and brows.

“It’s like talking to a brick wall, and I’ve got some experience talking to brick walls, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt shoots him glare without heat and gestures towards Roach, his hand on her flank to keep her in place. Jaskier raises a careful brow, feeling a smile grow on his face.

“Up,” Geralt says, exasperated.

“Why, Geralt,” Jaskier stage whispers, scandalized, “if I had known all it took to ride upon beautiful, patient,  _ wonderous _ Roach was a band of armed soldiers to twist your arm, I’d have —“

_ “Jaskier.” _

“Yes, yes, you great grumpy oaf,” Jaskier sighs. He puts his foot in the stirrup and twists, swinging his leg over the saddle and settling lightly so as not to startle Roach. She flicks her ears back at him, heaving a great sigh as he wiggles and tries to get comfortable in the seat meant for someone several inches taller than him. Geralt flicks the reins over Roach’s head and gives them to Jaskier, closing a hand over his own before he steps away.

Jaskier looks down into deep gold and sees the apprehension there, the doubt and anxiety at being followed by so many armed men. He can hear the rustle of armor and horses and the murmur of voices as Alfred shouts at his guard to get ready, but under it all he can hear Geralt breathing deep, looking up at him with a look he’s seen only a handful of times.

“If things turn for the worst,” Geralt says, then stops. A muscle in his jaw jumps and he grimaces. His grip on Jaskier’s hand tightens, his leather glove creaking, the warmth of his skin seeping through even now. “If it turns bad, you spur Roach and you run.”

Jaskier couldn’t argue if he wanted to. There’s thirty swords at their backs, and likely more from wherever this warlord came from. Their odds are stacked against them, and while a Witcher is destined to die by his blade, Jaskier would really rather not have his gut sliced open today, thank you very much.

Even though the thought of leaving Geralt here to die hurts more than any mortal wound ever could. Even though nodding and saying “Yes, I’ll run” twists his stomach into painful knots. Geralt releases his hand, their gaze breaking only when he moves ahead of Roach, starting a slow march matched by the beat of hooves and armor in the damp earth behind him. 

“I hate that they treat you this way,” Jaskier says lowly. He knows Geralt can hear him above the din and crash of metal and animal proceeding them. “Like a mutt. Nothing more than a dog with his nose to the dirt.”

Geralt shakes his head. He knows. They’ve been travelling together long enough that, even though Jaskier’s anger over him is nothing new, neither is this argument. 

The Witcher leads them further down the path, across stone bridges and crossroads well worn with traffic. This is far from the main cobbled highway tying Novigrad to the eastern trade routes, but this is still a wide road, beaten down into packed earth. Wagon ruts divide the road in two, and Geralt leads them along the left side for miles, careful of wandering too far, scenting the air like a well-trained hunting dog, just like Duke Alfred had asked.

The morning mist gives way to a bright day lined with fat, dark thunderclouds, threatening rain later. Geralt stops suddenly at a bend in the road, wandering close to the line of trees bordering the stone half wall along the path separating civilization from the world.

Jaskier pulls Roach to a stop, and with shouts and rattles that last longer than strictly necessary, the retinue behind him does as well. The same man that gave Geralt the gold and silk sash steps out of formation and tries valiantly to crowd into Geralt’s space, but the Witcher, in true fashion, simply stands there, unprovoked and unimpressed.

“What seems to be the issue?” Alfred shouts when his guard goes several long moments without seeming to prod Geralt into doing anything. Jaskier has to try very hard not to laugh with how red the man’s face is getting as Geralt continues to ignore him.

“I could do without your guard in my face,” Geralt says, almost lazily. “I can smell what he ate for breakfast two days ago.”

The man glances behind Jaskier, and after a shift of metal in what he can only assume is a dismissive wave from the Duke, he backs away a few feet from the Witcher. Geralt raises a brow, then looks to Jaskier.

Jasker slides from Roach’s saddle and approaches him, careful not to move too quickly in case it startles their armed shadows into action. Alfred shouts another question, but Geralt ignores him, so Jaskier does as well.

“It’s a selkie,” Geralt says, low and quiet. “The silk in his sash — that’s her skin.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “So the girl. She’s real? He wasn’t leading us out into the wilderness to slaughter us both in some bog?”

“I tracked her,” Geralt affirms, “but selkies aren’t dangerous.  _ He _ is. If he’s got her skin, then she’s trapped.”

“But she ran anyway. How?”

Geralt’s eyes flicker towards the guard standing nearby, then to the small army growing restless behind them. Alfred says something again, his tone increasingly angry, and Jaskier visibly flinches. 

“Grab Roach and run,” he says. “When I move, you get in the saddle and don’t look back.”

Jaskier balks. “ _ Geralt.  _ I’m not leaving. How would you find me? We can’t set a predetermined meeting place now, they’d find me, and even if you  _ did _ survive —“

Geralt’s hand settles over Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier’s pounding heart thunders like war drums in his ears, but Geralt’s heavy warmth seeping through him settles him some. He nods, unable to tear his gaze away molten gold until Geralt is stepping back, stepping around, his body loose but tense in a way that screamed readiness before a fight.

It’s quiet for a few moments, like it always is before things like this. Jaskier has followed Geralt on enough hunts to be familiar with the silence that precedes chaos, the calm before a tempest, a quiet that seeps so deep it’s bone shaking. Unnerving as it is, it’s also invigorating, empowering — so much can happen before the draw of a blade or the spring of a crossbow. The world hangs in waiting, breath bated, subduing destiny long enough to sate its own curiosity for a bloodbath.

Jaskier has a few precious moments to breathe and remember that Roach is facing the easiest route out of here. She’s less likely to throw him if he acts confidently, even though he isn’t her usual rider and she’s going to be less amenable to leaving Geralt behind. But she’s even keeled during close quarter sword fights, so as long as he avoids stray bolts and blades, he’s confident he can get to her without choking on his rabbit-quick heart.

But then, like all placid moments before a storm, it ends too quickly. Jaskier hears the shriek of Geralt’s blade leaving its sheath followed by the answering draw of Duke Alfred’s sword, and with it, he springs into action. Geralt swings to lock steel with the nearby soldier while Jaskier hauls himself up into Roach, spurring and shouting at her before he can properly seat himself. A crossbow bolt thumps firmly in the dirt near her fore feet but she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t neigh or buck — she simply moves, standing still one moment and sprinting away in the next. Jaskier doesn’t even have time to look behind to catch a glimpse of Geralt diving into the foray before she’s carrying him around the bend in the road in a thunder of hoofbeats, clods of dirt kicking up behind her. 

He thinks he hears several riders give chase behind him, but Roach is a smart girl. Without waiting for Jaskier to make a decision (and how could he, right now, with how quickly this has devolved? Where should he go? How far should he run? Geralt wasn’t even fully armed, not with both swords, not with his potion chest and dagger and cloak — how would he survive?), she veers right, off the road and into the brush, disappearing into the thicket as if she were born to be there. The sounds of fighting and horses pursuing gets quickly blocked by the thick forest engulfing them, and quickly Jaskier’s thoughts shift into nothing more than  _ run run run. _

Branches whip his cheeks and more than once he’d thought Roach would trip or twist her ankle in a steep creek bed or tree stump, but she weaves through the thicket with an ease born of necessity. She runs until her coat lathers with sweat and her breaths heave out of her in great gasping wheezes, and even then, she still runs. Jaskier doesn’t ask her to stop until he’s sure they’ve been running for hours — the sun is turning orange as it hits the horizon, and the wood around them is thinning out into sparse farmlands. Near civilization, then — near safety if Jaskier can’t find shelter for them both from the road.

When he slides off Roach, he nearly falls, his legs turned to jelly. Adrenaline barely keeps him upright as he struggles to unbuckle Roach’s tack, her chest heaving like a bellows, her body twitching and anxious, tail whipping side to side and head tossing back and forth. She doesn’t stomp, doesn’t fight, doesn’t snap at him when he manages to slip off her bridle with shaking fingers. She gentles when he leads her to a thin river cutting the land in two, rushing and gurgling quietly, as if the hush of evening has silenced even nature herself into complacency.

Jaskier does nothing more than stack Roach’s tack against a thick tree trunk near the river bank and strip off his ruined doublet before he calls it good. A fire would be a bad idea (not to mention too much work, especially with how shaken he is), and Roach doesn’t seem able to move more than she’s meant to. He watches in amazement when, after she drinks her fill from the river, she lowers herself slowly into the grass next to him, folding her long legs underneath herself before huffing a great, deep sigh. 

Her exhaustion finally seeps into him, too. The sky grows dark, and only then does Jaskier allow what had happened to sink down into him. He’s alone, but not like all the other times he and Geralt had gone separate ways. Not willingly, like usual, when Geralt has to return to Kaer Morhen for the winter or Jaskier needed a taste of civilization after spending months sleeping underneath the stars. He’s alone because he had to be, because he can’t defend himself like Geralt can, and the sick thought that he’d left the Witcher alone to die at the swords of men finally hits him and he nearly doubles over with the urge to vomit.

A Witcher was to die at the hand of monsters. It’s the Path, their destiny, their sad, cruel lot in their long, tortured lives. Men despise them, but men pay them, and for their services they get death at the ends of teeth and claws and tragedy. Honor comes in sacrifice, and Jaskier had just handed Geralt’s over on a sad wooden plate unfit for even the most meager of offerings to the gods.

It’s then that he catches a glimpse of Geralt’s silver sword amongst their things. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d been divesting Roach of her bags, hadn’t given it a second thought other than  _ sharp _ and  _ heavy _ and  _ keep this in reach somewhere.  _ Its four-headed wolf pommel peeks out from the large leather slip it’s wrapped in, looking painfully lonely without its steel twin to keep it company. He picks it up, cradling it close, the strap as worn and familiar as his lute’s as he passes it through his fingers and over his shoulder. 

He collapses against Roach, unable to keep the broken sound erupting from his chest from escaping. Roach nickers, bumping her soft, velvety nose against his cheek, her whiskers tickling at the scratches and welts left behind by tree branches and thorns he hadn’t bothered to hide from in their escape. She stinks of sweat and dirt and horse, but she also smells of home, and that over anything is what finally lulls him into a fretful sleep, Geralt’s sword fitted firmly against his side.

——

The snap of a twig is what wakes him, and despite sleep fogging his brain, he leaps up, shaking the silver sword free of its sheath and pointing it firmly in the direction where he thought he’d heard an intruder.

It’s still dark, twilight barely making anything visible beyond the glow the sword in his hand seems to emit from the runes carved carefully down its broad side. Roach huffs and stands behind him, seemingly unperturbed, and he’s about ready to turn and reprimand her for her disinterest in being stealthy before he spots a familiar reflective green-red glow in the dark ahead of him.

Cat’s eyes. Predator’s eyes. Eyes he’d know anywhere, even in his dreams.

“Geralt,” he wheezes. He drops the sword, and without thinking, sprints to the Witcher without worrying about what he might trip over. Thankfully, nothing, and in four quick strides, he smacks into a wall of armor and muscle, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and simply breathing.

“You smell like death,” he hears himself say, pitched and hysterical. “Like, like death and —“

“Destiny?” Geralt finishes for him, amused. “You’ve said that already. A long time ago.”

Well, yes, he had. Years ago, when it was simply a pass at trying to flirt with a man that clearly hadn’t been flirted with in such a way before. But now he means it, because by all the gods in the sweet, pillowy heavens —

“Geralt, you  _ reek.” _

“You don’t smell so great yourself.”

“ _ Eugh,  _ is that  _ viscera?  _ You could have warned me, you bumbling idiot, by sweet Melitele’s tits, darling, did you  _ roll  _ in their blood and guts before coming here or did you ask them all to  _ please  _ split their stomachs and rain their internal organs on you like a waterfall before you went to find your brave, illustrious companion?”

“Illustrious? Jaskier, you’re a  _ bard.” _

“That’s Master Jaskier to you, and by the gods, Geralt, please light a fire or something so I can push you into the river and threaten you with bodily harm if you so much as think about coming out before you’ve scrubbed all that out.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. But it’s warm, and rough, and sweet around the edges like it normally shouldn’t be. Jaskier shuts up, his normal autopilot shuddering and wheezing to a broken, fearful stop. 

He’d nearly died. He’d faces thirty armed men and Jaskier had left him and he’d nearly  _ died  _ —

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier flinches. Geralt is close, closer than they’ve been in a long time. His face is pressed into Jaskier’s hair, his nose skimming the crown of his head, his chest expanding underneath Jaskier’s trembling hands as he breathes in deep. His armor creaks and his breath whistles through his nose, just a little, either from pain or the journey of following Jaskier here. His fingers jitter as they skip over Jaskier’s back and shoulders, across his ribs and under his elbows, checking for signs of injury and distress. They finally rest on his biceps after a few moments of checking, gripping but not too tightly, still breathing deeply.

He should be frightened, but all Jaskier’s heart can do is calm. Geralt is here, he’s safe, he’s alive. He killed thirty men for a creature that probably never thanked him, and Jaskier couldn’t be more grateful for Witcher stamina than he is right now.

“Honeycomb,” Geralt rumbles suddenly.

Jaskier blinks his eyes open. He doesn’t remember closing them, and this late at night, he can’t see much anyway. Geralt is two inches away and he can barely see the outline of his shoulders, but he keeps them open, safe in the security that Geralt can see much better than he can in the dark.

“Pardon?” Jaskier asks. When Geralt doesn’t immediately answer, Jaskier huffs, adopting a tone he knows is sure to get his companion prodded into speaking. “Really, Geralt, did they teach you to speak at Witcher school or did you all communicate in subvocal grunts all the time?”

Geralt breathes deeply, seeming to relax. “Honeycomb. And chamomile. And Roach. That’s what you smell like.”

“Oh.” And then it occurs to him, like being ran over rather violently by a team of horses dragging especially heavy carts.  _ “Oh.” _

Geralt snorts. He steps away, but only enough to tug Jaskier back towards his small, haphazard camp. He pushes Jaskier down against Roach’s saddle with gentle hands on his shoulders, then gets to work, prowling about in the dark for firewood and laying out their bedrolls as if he hadn’t just tracked Jaskier for leagues by scent alone.

The fire ignites with a silent twist of Geralt’s wrist,  _ igni _ giving light to their immediate surroundings. It also casts Geralt in sharp relief, and Jaskier can’t keep back the gasp as he finally lays eyes on his companion after a day of being apart.

He’s covered in gore, blood caked on his armor and wiped haphazardly from his pale face. His hair is pulled back in a messy queue, exposing his neck, a haphazard attempt at keeping it out of his eyes as he likely ran the entire distance between Jaskier’s escape and where they are now. His boots are muddy and the leather of his armor sports several new, clean tears, made by swords. Jaskier goes to open his mouth but Geralt shakes his head.

“Didn’t kill all of them,” he says quietly. “Didn’t have to.”

“I think that’s the first time I haven’t had to wring details out of you like a maid wringing out the laundry,” Jaskier says with a weak laugh. “Hit your head or something?”

Geralt’s yellow glare is without heat. He begins to unlace his armor, picking at ties stiff with blood, the creak of leather coming loose the only sound over the fire for a short time while Jaskier gathers himself.

“How many, then?” he breathes. 

“Five. After that, they stood down.”

Jaskier snorts. “I find losing five men wasn’t much of a loss for our dear Duke Alfred. What else did you do?”

“Alfred was one of the five.”

Geralt’s grin is small, barely there, barely a twitch of his lips and a crinkle of his brow. But it’s there, and self-satisfied like he’s never been. He’s drenched in red-brown blood and he shakes from head to toe in exhaustion, but he’s  _ proud _ of himself for the first time since Jaskier has known him, and it makes him smile.

“And the selkie?”

Geralt’s grin turns down some, but doesn’t disappear. “Gave her skin back. She hadn’t gone far from the road. Just enough to resist the pull.”

Jaskier hums. “I suppose we aren’t getting paid for this, are we?”

The Witcher’s nose twists. His armor falls away in a whuff of red dust, blood flaking away as it drops to the dirt. Jaskier can smell him, the blood, sweat, mud, grass — and realizes belatedly how much stronger it must be for Geralt.

He shoots up and snatches the small pot they use to cook, picking his way across the small distance from their fire to the bank of the river. He dips it in and carries it back carefully, setting it in the bracken next to Geralt’s hip before rifling in the saddlebags for the rags set aside for expressly this purpose.

Geralt, surprisingly, doesn’t fight him when he raises the first cold rag up to his face. He merely blinks, pupils wide pointed ovals in the warm glow of the fire, placid and without reproach. Jaskier wipes the grime from his face, his hair, pulling at the leather tie holding the queue at the back of his head and shaking the blood from long white strands. Geralt endures without comment, even when Jaskier deems him clean enough and moves on to wiping down his armor.

When he’s done, Geralt’s expression is no longer pinched. His mouth is no longer open like he was avoiding breathing through his nose, and his hands don’t shake with the effort of trying to relax. He manages to divest his leather tunic and boots on his own, leaving on the thick cotton shirt and leather trousers. His toes curl into the earth, and only then does Jaskier notice the blisters on the knobs of his feet.

Geralt catches his eye, keen like always when someone is observing him. Jaskier won’t be cowed, not now and not ever. He waits, silenced by what’s been done and where they are right now, unable to conjure up words and songs and stories with the weight of almost losing everything so swiftly.

“Thank you,” Geralt grumbles quietly. The words startle him more than the suddenness of them, and Geralt’s expression turns wry. “Don’t look so surprised, Bard.”

“That’s probably the first time you’ve thanked me since we’ve met,” Jaskier says. He puts a hand over his pounding heart, plastering a watery smile on his face despite how warm and heavy the gratitude sits beneath his ribs. “You’re welcome, Master Witcher.”

Geralt snorts. He hums, then stretches out on his bedroll, visibly forcing himself to relax. Roach noses at him as she wanders around the fire, nickering in greeting. He pets her nose and then she steps away, nibbling at grass, the soft sound of her tail swishing the only accompaniment to the crackling fire for a while.

Geralt closes his eyes and Jaskier finally feels himself unwind. He settles against the saddle behind him and takes up his lute, plucking quietly at the strings, easily composing an uncomplicated melody. It soothes him, and as he watches Geralt finally sigh and loosen his limbs, Jaskier takes pride in soothing him, too.

——

They’re in the market of a bigger town the next week when he tries it, counting on Geralt’s complacency to follow him through the press of people that more often than not glare and step aside rather than spit insults if they see Jaskier leading instead of the other way around. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkles at the first scent he tries, followed by a huff of air as if he’s trying to clear it from his sinuses. Jaskier hums and sets it aside, smiling at the girl manning the stall, charming her without speaking. Geralt is a warm, imposing weight against his back, silently unwilling to part with the protection Jaskier provides. 

Unfortunately, it gives Jaskier more time to use him as a guinea pig.

The next scent elicits a stronger snort, and this time, a pointed glare. Jaskier sets it aside and opens the third one, smiling at the lack of a sigh or crinkled nose, nearly laughing when Geralt leans over and breathes a little deeper.

“This one,” he rumbles. He plucks a vial out of a straw-lined basket, holding it out in his palm. The oil inside is a clear, warm gold, and when Jaskier opens it, the sweet aroma of honey and vanilla wafts up.

Jaskier grins, pleased. “Isn’t this how you found me? From my cologne?”

Geralt’s expression has smoothed into gentle impassivity, but there’s a tilt to his lips that belies his amusement. He dips his chin in a silent nod.

“I’ll take this one, then, if you please,” Jaskier says. He fishes out the required coun and drops it in the girl’s waiting palm, who looks more and more frightened the longer they stand there. Jaskier spares her and leads Geralt away from the stall, weaving between bodies towards the end of the market that holds the things they really came here for.

“It was nice,” Geralt says quietly behind him. Jaskier has to strain himself to hear, but the words settle warm in his chest anyway. “Knowing you were alive by scent alone. It eased — eased my —“

“I know,” Jaskier says, equally quiet. He’d never force Geralt to admit to fear. There wasn’t pride in it, no honor, in forcing such a man when he felt it so deeply already. It was enough that Geralt was here at all, alive and unscathed. It’s enough that he followed Jaskier. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums. Later, when they break camp and go on their way, Geralt breathes deeply as Jaskier uncorks the oil again, as if memorizing the scent all over again, as if the scent alone would lead him home.


	2. Sight

_ “If one is so unlucky as to meet a Witcher, he may notice one thing startlingly different about these man-shaped creatures: their eyes. Golden yellow in the most unnatural of hues, with slitted pupils akin to a panther or viper, these eyes are capable of seeing farther and more keenly than you or I, dear reader. A Witcher needs only flex and his pupils are as wide and round as a cat sighting a string, with the extraordinary ability to see in the dark as if it were midday. He can read a small text from across a wide ballroom without squinting, and should you deign to lie, he can spot the tick of your brow and twitch of your jaw without blinking. Those that have fought a Witcher and won, however few, claim that blinding them is the only way to gain an advantage, and even then, only just. Their cat’s eyes see all, and should you find yourself looking into slitted gold, you should find yourself looking away.” _

_ — Master Belgravius, “Monsters and Those Who Hunt Them: A Guide to the Beast Known as the Witcher”, Chapter III, page 72 _

It’s quite possibly one of the most frustrating things about travelling with a Witcher. There were many things, numbering in the dozens, and none of them had to do with said Witcher himself. 

No, not his poor Witcher. He may be emotionally stunted and speak more in grunts than actual words, but Geralt was a good, honorable man underneath his rough exterior. With a lifespan as long as his, it was hard to see the light in things sometimes, and Jaskier can’t really fault him for being bleak.

Especially in the winter. Witchers are used to a life on the move, and during the yearly frosts, there’s nothing more depressing than a Witcher wintering alone. 

But no. The Witcher himself isn’t to blame for such stellar examples of social decorum. No. It was humans, once again, shining through as beacons of hospitality and generosity in the face of a good deed done selflessly.

“You can’t make camp here, mutant,” a hunter snaps. His friends bristle with daggers and crossbows, and instead of fighting, Geralt moves on, weaving through the maze of tents and campfires in search of another free spot. Jaskier follows behind him, guiding Roach with a gentle hand on her cheek and a loose grip on her reins. 

“Jerks,” Jaskier mutters. “Wouldn’t know common decency if it fucked them up the arse.”

Geralt shakes his head, a nearly imperceptible movement if Jaskier hadn’t been watching for it. Roach sighs in agreement next to him, and Jaskier beams.

“Look at it this way,” he continues, “at least we won’t be camping next to a bunch of pricks during this whole production, huh? We already have enough on our plate hunting this archgriffin.”

“Wouldn’t be doing this otherwise,” Geralt says. He gestures around them, at the sea of men and women gathered together for an evening of merriment before the hunt moves into full swing as if to say,  _ look at this refuse I must put up with _ . This is easily the biggest hunting party Jaskier’s seen answer a Lord’s call, and so far, he’s seen only one Witcher. 

Geralt finds another clear spot between two campfires surrounded by a more boisterous group of hunters than before, however their enthusiasm doesn’t seem to translate into outright hostility. Well, at least for now. They allow Geralt and Jaskier to begin untacking Roach, swinging off her saddlebags and saddle before unloading their bed rolls and gear. Geralt moves quickly as if the area he’d found would be snatched from them, and given the strange, already hard glares being thrown their way, Jaskier is certain it might have been had Geralt not made a show of pointedly keeping his steel sword strapped across his chest.

“Hey, white one!” a hunter calls from the fire to their left. Geralt doesn’t flinch, and Jaskier watches as he barely turns in the man’s direction to acknowledge him. “You’re that monster killer the Lord’s hired, aintcha?”

“Hmm,” Geralt responds. He continues making camp, so Jaskier does as well, collecting stones for the windbreak around their fire pit, careful not to wander out of earshot. 

“Don’t talk much?” the hunter continues. “Are you stupid? Or mute?”

Geralt pointedly doesn’t respond. Jaskier dumps his collection of rocks in the center of the semicircle of horse gear and their belongings, ripping up the dead, damp grass before arranging them. He catches Geralt’s eye as he does, who shakes his head, however minutely. 

_ Don’t speak,  _ those eyes say.  _ It’s too much work. Please, for once in your short, pitiful life, keep your mouth shut. _

Well. Maybe he’s embellishing. Geralt doesn’t tell him to shut up in so many words, but it makes for a dramatic scene in a ballad. 

“How ‘bout you?” the hunter wheedles. His grey stare turns in Jaskier while Geralt’s flicks to the hunter, a simultaneous movement that spells death no matter what Jaskier does. 

So he smiles, ignoring the heat of the stranger’s eyes on him and taking comfort in Geralt’s as the Witcher settles himself beside him. “Why, I speak, good man,” Jaskier says. He pats his lute case on his other side, his grin turning toothy. “I sing, too, if that passes your fancy.”

“Why don’t he?” another hunter says. He gestures at Geralt with a stick he’d been using to poke at his fire, the blackened tip waving smoke in the air. “He dumb or somethin’?”

“We’re here to hunt,” Geralt finally says. His gravel monotone startles both parties of hunters beside their camp, heads twisting to face him and all side conversations suddenly ceasing. 

“Same as all of us,” the first hunter says. “Just tryin’ to be friendly, Butcher.”

Geralt sighs heavy through his nose. The hunter smiles, dark and knowing, and Jaskier is suddenly overcome with the urge to take up his lute and beat him unconscious.

“Don’t,” Geralt murmurs. His hand is heavy on Jaskier’s back, keeping him in place as much as offering reassurance. He doesn’t move away until Jaskier takes several calming breaths to keep himself from launching at anyone, even as both camps on either side of them pick up in quiet, teasing conversation, their eyes never truly wandering away from them.

Geralt ties Roach to the horn of her saddle so the bulk of her body blocks off one camp, leaving them open to the quieter one on the right. He lights the fire Jaskier builds with  _ igni, _ then pointedly seats himself against their bags next to Jaskier, making himself the second impromptu barrier between the other camp.

Jaskier strums his lute, careful not to let his gaze stray too far. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

Geralt hums. “Necessity. No work if I snap at every toothless jab.”

“Doesn’t make it right, conceding like that,” Jaskier says, but there’s no heat. He knows, and he agrees. This is a tired argument they’ve had many times. Geralt, somehow, always wins, as apathetic and sour as the win may be. 

The afternoon passes in relative peace, with only a mild interruption as Geralt leaves to fetch oats for Roach from the nearby stabling tent. He gets hollered at the entire way, called  _ Butcher  _ and  _ mutant _ in coarse voices. Jaskier tries to drown it away with a more upbeat jig that he has to force from his fingers, but when Geralt returns and Roach is happily munching away, his expression is unconcerned. 

It isn’t until the overcast sky begins to darken that the mood around them suddenly shifts like a bad wind at sea. Their neighbors, while rude and boisterous, had insofar kept to themselves; until they suddenly didn’t, and as Geralt was oiling his swords and Jasker was giving his fingers a break, they crowded into their small camp and made themselves at home.

“You’ve been quiet, the two of yas,” the first hunter says. His buddies giggle like school boys as if he’s said something truly hilarious. 

Jaskier starts picking at his lute again, raising a brow as if to say  _ see?  _ “I don’t see why we should be overly loud. It seems like a waste of energy before such an important event, don’t you?”

“And why are you here?” another hunter snaps. His beard nearly swallows his entire face, the edges frayed and streaked with gray. “You don’t look much like a monster hunter.”

“Why, I’m offended! I’m integral to a Witcher’s process of killing monsters. Who else is going to beautify such gruesome, harrowing tales other than a master bard such as myself?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns.

“As a whore, maybe,” a different hunter says with a cruel smile. Jaskier’s blood flushes cold. “Is that what you are? Is that what you use him for, Butcher?”

“Mind sharing?”

“Just a quick fuck.”

“I bet he  _ screams -” _

It happens so fast Jaskier barely has the wherewithal to snatch his lute to his chest and scramble out of the way. One moment the men surrounding them are heckling and laughing, the next the first hunter, the one with dead eyes and a sick smile, is kicking embers up into Geralt’s face with a swipe of the side of his boot across the fire. Hot rocks scatter across the dry grass, catching smoke, and in a sudden wave, there’s a surge of bodies and swords, shouts and sound. 

Geralt snarls as the embers blind him, one arm coming up to cover his eyes while the other shoots out and grabs a fistfull of Jaskier’s shirt. He shoves him back, placing the bard behind him as he scrambles to his feet, and without thinking Jaskier drops his lute and wraps his fingers around the hilt of Geralt’s steel sword he had set aside. He grabs Geralt’s wrist and presses the blade into his hand, then hops back, putting feet of space between them as the Witcher hefts the sword and swings it around to block the first blow. 

It’s as if he hadn’t been blinded at all. He knocks away the first attacker like a sack of potatoes, kicking him over another man before slicing at a third that tries to capitalize on the Witcher’s seemingly open left side. Geralt elbows away the thin wooden bat meant for his head and slams the pommel of his sword against the man’s temple, dropping him in a twitching heap at his feet, then lunges, piercing a fifth man all the way through like he wasn’t made of muscle and bone and sinew. He drops, too, and then Geralt sinks into a crouch, avoiding the wide swing of a broadsword as it whistles through the air - that man dies swiftly as well, his knees hacked through and his chest split open as Geralt springs up from his heels, his blade carving a jagged L shape upwards as he moves. 

The seventh and eighth man think better of lunging for him, and drop their weapons the moment Geralt readies his sword horizontal to the ground in a wide stance meant to parry blows. They stay like that, all four of them, Jaskier’s heart and breath loud in his ears, plastered as he is against the broad wooden pillar of the tent across from their campfire. Geralt stays still, barely heaving, his blade steady, while the two remaining hunters look between each other and the crowd gathering around them starts to murmur and whisper. 

It’s when the two hunters begin to step away that Jaskier finally finds the strength to move his limbs. He rushes to Geralt, who doesn’t flinch when Jaskier’s hands wind around his shoulders, easing him out of the defensive slouch he has himself in. He doesn’t let go of his sword, but he allows it to be dropped, the point of the blade sweeping the grass as Geralt finally draws himself up to his full height. 

“What the hell is going on here?!” a voice booms, startling Jaskier but not the Witcher between his hands. Jaskier whips around in time to watch as a guard of four men come clanking up through the crowd, parting it as they go. 

“These fine men attacked my friend, so he simply protected himself. My friend who was  _ hired _ to participate in this hunt, mind,” Jaskier says. His voice is high with tension, but he can’t control it, not with the thick smell of blood clogging his throat, nearly making him choke. 

“He’s right,” another guard says. “I saw them both at the Lord’s tent. Bernard asked for them both specifically in case this whole show went sideways.”

The first guard nods his head. He doesn’t seem perturbed in the least by the six dead men at Geralt and Jaskier’s feet - instead he gestures to his three fellows and they begin to move the bodies into an even line in the walkway between tents. Jaskier pushes Geralt out of their way by the shoulders, backing him up against Roach’s side - who had, thankfully, not pulled her rope and bolted once the short fight had begun.

“Does it hurt?” Jaskier asks. He places his hands on Geralt’s face, directing him to dip his chin down, which he obeys. His eyes are squeezed shut, and even in the low light cast by the collection of fires and torches around them, Jaskier can see angry red welts around them as well as smears of soot. 

“Do I have to answer?” Geralt bites out. He shrinks away from Jaskier’s soft touch over his brow, but only just, and visibly has to keep himself still as Jaskier continues to touch him. 

“Alright, well, smartass,” Jaskier continues. “Can you try and open them? And drop the sword, the guards are nearby, nothing will happen.”

Geralt reluctantly loosens his grip on the sword. Jaskier takes it and sets it aside nearby, then presses down on Geralt’s shoulders, urging him to sit. The guards move around them, careful of keeping a few feet between them as they work, stepping over their bags and bedding with soft steps. And then they’re shouting for the crowd to return to their camps, more of them appearing from between the tents and fires to enforce order. Jaskier ignores them the best he can while he yanks over bags and packs, digging through them for the jar of salve and bandages gone soft with how often they’ve been used and cleaned.

“Let’s try again,” Jaskier says. He settles between Geralt’s spread knees, unscrewing the metal lid to the salve and touching a finger under Geralt’s chin to lift his face. “Can you open them?”

A muscle in the Witcher’s tense jaw jumps as he slowly cracks an eye, tears immediately tracking down his cheeks as air hits the abused cornea. Jaskier wipes them away, trying not to touch too much as Geralt takes several painful seconds to fully open his eyes. Jaskier bites back a pained sound when he finally does, then drags over his waterskin and wets some bandages before dabbing at the inflamed skin around the Witcher’s fluttering eyelids. 

The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, and when Jaskier shifts back to allow the firelight to fall across his face, the slits of his pupils are slow to dilate. Jaskier chews on his lip and switches from the bandages to the salve, dabbing it carefully across Geralt’s cheeks and eyelids, pausing every time he blinks, which is often.

“Can you see much?” Jaskier asks quietly. He keeps working, careful to go slow. “Your pupils aren’t dilating.”

“It’s dark, but I can see you,” Geralt manages. “Well.  _ Blurry _ you.”

“Did you just  _ tease _ me?” Jaskier says, shocked. “Geralt of Rivia, are you finally developing a sense of humor after roaming this earth for a  _ century? _ ”

“Say anything else and I’ll throw you across camp,” Geralt growls. The effect is lost by another flutter of his eyelids as Jaskier strokes more salve across his cheek.

“Close them for now,” Jaskier says, smiling at Geralt’s answering hum as he obeys. “I’m reasonably certain a majority of our things avoided getting blood on them, so I’ll fix camp while you rest.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. His fingers wrap around Jaskier’s wrist, keeping him from rising. Jaskier stays put, his heart picking up speed, every limb and fingertip feeling light with warmth. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says quietly. He closes his other hand around Geralt’s, squeezing his fingers. He smiles even though the Witcher can’t see him. “You don’t have to. I know.”

Geralt hums. He releases him after a long moment, allowing him to step away from his personal space. He sits quiet but attentive as Jaskier rearranges their things, carefully wiping down the sword used in the fight before sliding it back into its sheath and shaking out their blankets of grass and dirt from being stepped on. The fire had been slowly dying after being kicked, so Jaskier rebuilds the windbreak and feeds it with more logs, then he takes Geralt’s hand and guides him up to his feet. 

The Witcher doesn’t fight or complain. He sinks obediently into his bedroll once Jaskier shows it to him, promptly beginning to unlace his armor and boots afterwards. Jaskier watches him do it blind, his movements easy and fluid with muscle memory, only stepping in when the other man pauses at the ties behind him. Jaskier picks them loose and sets aside the chestpiece near the saddle, then returns to his bed roll, sitting cross legged on it with his lute in his lap. 

They both stay awake through the remainder of the night, unable and unwilling to lower their guard as the camps around them begin to pick up in their merrymaking. They’re to hunt an archgriffin in the morning, here for sport because their Lord is giving away a steep prize to the hunting team that kills it. But Geralt’s been hired and he’s already killed six men blinded and provoked, and the looks tossed their way as they night drags on is enough to keep Jaskier wide awake. 

As the sky starts to turn grey and the camps around them quiet to catch a few meager hours of sleep, Jaskier sets aside his lute and helps Geralt back into his armor. The Witcher had spent most of the night in a light meditation, palms face up and loose in his lap as he breathed slow and even. When he opens his eyes, it's without pain or tears, and the skin around them is pale instead of irritated and puckered in welts. 

“It’s nice seeing them again,” Jaskier whispers. The silence of the camps around him keeps him quiet. Geralt hums, blinking down at him. Jaskier smiles as he sees the quick, slight dilation of his pupils and the easy recognition in there. 

“It’s nice to  _ see _ again,” Geralt hums. He tips his head, expression going thoughtful. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier runs his fingers over Geralt’s armor, well aware that the Witcher is watching him with something like curious amusement in his eyes. “And thank you for dispatching such entertaining guests,” he says. “I tried cleaning your sword, but I know how meticulous you are, and some of your gear got blood on it so I hope the smell doesn’t bother you too much. Oh, and -”

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says. He tips forward, pressing their foreheads together. Jaskier’s heart jumps into his throat and he very nearly collapses from his knees turning to jelly, but then Geralt is stepping away, rousing Roach from her slumber nearby and beginning the slow process of breaking camp. 

Jaskier stands there for a long time wondering what dimension he may have stepped in to warrant such a reaction from someone so vehemently against any sort of unnecessary physical contact. He quickly decides he doesn’t care as long as it gets to keep happening, and starts helping by gathering their bed rolls and bags. He kicks out the fire maybe a little too aggressively, but when he turns around, Geralt is staring at him with his lips ticked up in amusement. He doesn’t look away from those golden eyes for a long time, not even when the camps around them begin to wake and the hunt looms over them, dark and hungry, and when he does, he sees them behind his eyelids every time he blinks, a perfect afterimage he never hopes to ever lose. 


	3. Perception

_“Our hunting hounds not only rely on their acute sense of smell, but also on their sharp sense of hearing. A Witcher is no different from his canine kin, with ears as sensitive as a bat’s. A whisper is no secret to Witchers, even through walls and across distances. The beat of horse’s hooves and the soft breath of an exhale are equally as loud to a Witcher even from many mìls away, rendering an escape from a pursuing Witcher fruitless. You may remember me mentioning in the previous chapter about a Witcher’s blindness being a small advantage in a fight — it is because of his hearing that it is only just, because a blind Witcher is still a perceptive one, and a perceptive Witcher is still just as aware and deadly. Nothing is safe in confidence, whether it be information or one’s life, as long as a Witcher can hear you. So keep your secrets safe, and be sure not to fall on the wrong side of a Witcher’s intense perception.”_

_— Master Belgravius, “Monsters and Those Who Hunt Them: A Guide to the Beast Known as the Witcher”, Chapter IV, page 105_

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I’ve asked nicely! I’ve even offered you half of what I’ll make, including gratuity. You know how people can get during these things, Geralt!”

“The last time I said yes, I ended up with a Child Surprise. I’m not interested, Jaskier.”

As far as rejections go, this one is probably the easiest of them he’s had to endure. Jaskier still puffs his chest and tries again anyway, because Geralt _will_ break, sooner or later. His soft heart won’t allow for even the simplests of heartaches.

And he does. Ache. Deeply, and probably far more than he should. Especially after the dragon hunt, especially after going months without knowing, without seeing, without hearing not a word of the _White Wolf of Rivia_ \--

“Jaskier. You’ll burn yourself.”

Jaskier yanks his hands away from the fire that sputters and grows while Geralt feeds it more logs. His eyes glitter with the reflection of the flames, a look of passive amusement crossing his expression before it’s carefully hidden away. But he saw it, and without saying anything, they both know he did. 

“Won’t you please?” Jaskier tries again. Geralt sighs, and Jaskier rushes to beat him before he can turn him down again. “I’m not asking you to be my bodyguard this time. I don’t know anyone at this party except the Countess, and she’s been rather generous with the amount she’s promised me. One thousand crowns, Geralt.”

That peaks Geralt’s interest. Jaskier smiles, pleased, as Geralt stares at him over the fire. 

“Including gratuity,” he rumbles. 

Jaskier smiles wider. “Including gratuity.”

Coin, like always, is a soft spot. Especially lately, with winter creeping closer, the nights getting longer and colder as hunts get sparser and sparser. Geralt will have to return to Kaer Morhen soon to wait out the frost, and Jaskier, to Oxenfurt. Their paths will diverge for a few months or more, and Jaskier wants to postpone their separation for as long as possible. 

Geralt mulls over his offer, his breath coming slow and deep. He watches the fire for a while, then Roach as she ambles on the outskirts of their camp, snorting and picking at clover still springing full and green between the weeds. Jaskier knows he will say yes, but lets him pretend otherwise to preserve whatever semblance of cold, unfeeling Witcher Geralt wants to cling to.

And then he sighs, and nods, and Jaskier couldn’t beat the pleased smile from his face if he tried. 

“Fine,” Geralt says. “But if I have to fight off any cuckolds or widows, I’m leaving. I won’t be a circus act to be ogled at.”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier sighs. “I promise to beat back all the lords and ladies that try their flirtatious acts on you. I can’t have your precious virtue infringed upon, can I?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t bother hiding his amusement this time. His smile is small, and quiet, and Jaskier cradles it close like all the handfuls of others Geralt has deigned to give him.

While he’d wanted to prolong their time together, their Countess is steward to a minor portion of land to the north of Oxenfurt. Close to Kaedwen, and by extension, Kaer Morhen — and even closer to the Academy, where Geralt will probably insist on taking him before preparing for the trek through the Blue Mountains. Oxenfurt is a welcome, bittersweet sight, and Jaskier intends on spending every moment of absorbing it sober. He can’t afford to lose whatever time together they have when he doesn’t know when they’ll see each other again. 

An advantage to being near Oxenfurt, however, is the draw of free room and board. Being a Master Bard allows Jaskier some leeway as they make their way to the richer parts of the city, giving him a prime pick of whichever inn they want. He picks a more discreet one for Geralt’s sake and pulls rank once inside, acquiring separate rooms for the both of them as well as baths and food. He’s sure Geralt appreciates the privacy, but when they split to go to their rooms at opposite ends of the upstairs hall, Jaskier feels an uncomfortable tug in his gut that’s entirely unfamiliar and painful all at once.

He manages to somehow wake before Geralt (though that’s probably attributed to his lack of sleep the night before more than anything else), and convinces him down into the midmorning foot traffic to find appropriate clothes. Geralt complies with a moderate amount of protests, however half-hearted. 

“Do _I_ look like the one in need of formal ball wear?” Jaskier says. “Really, Geralt. With how often you’re asked to attend these things I’d think you would have something set aside.”

“Where would I store it?” Geralt bites out. He’s clearly trying to restrain himself despite the low volume of his voice. “I’m not going to sacrifice space on Roach for a doublet that I’ll wear once every two decades.”

“You have a point,” Jaskier hums. “Fashion changes too quickly with how long you live. What did nobles wear when you were young, by the way? Way back at the dawn of time?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, exasperated. “Just pick something.”

Jaskier hums, reaching out to open the door of a small shop with a flourish. He bows as Geralt passes under the threshold, however reluctantly, and follows him inside.

“Ah, Master Jaskier,” the tailor greets sweetly. She’s a thin woman, with a kind smile on her bony face. Her hands are long and shapely, and in another life she may have been a harpsichordist or performer. 

The cards did not count out that way for her, however, instead leading her down the path of a successful couturier. Jaskier accepts her offered hand with a kiss to her knuckles, revelling in the smile it elicits on her face and the quiet sigh from Geralt beside him.

“My dear Marlene,” Jaskier says. “I wish I could say that today you will have the utmost pleasure of picking out something for my next debut, but I’m afraid I must disappoint.”

“Oh, I am far from disappointed,” Marlene says with a not-so-subtle appreciative glance at Geralt. 

“Please,” Geralt sighs, annoyed. 

The desperation in his voice nearly makes Jaskier laugh, but he decides to have mercy. He gestures to Geralt, stepping aside so Marlene can take his place and get a better look at his companion. Geralt is not much taller, but he is thicker and more broad-shouldered. He has a dislike for anything especially colorful, Jaskier says, and please nothing too ornate or frilly.

Marlene smiles sweetly and sweeps across to the display case holding several wooden mannequins dressed in finery of the latest styles. The clothes are soft and vibrant, but there’s a suit of black and silver grey at the end of the line, something more fitting for a wake or remembrance than a party celebrating the coming of seasons. 

But it’s perfect for Geralt. Simple and without the puffy sleeves that make him itch, Jaskier and Marlene glance at each other wordlessly and nod. Jaskier leads the Witcher upstairs where he instructs him to undress while Marlene brings up the suit, setting out its individual pieces on a long waist high bench alongside Geralt’s everyday winter clothes and cloak. 

“Are there any places that are especially sensitive?” Marlene asks, not unkindly. Geralt stands on a plush carpet, looking hilariously out of place in such a nice, warm, inviting dressing parlor with a woman that looks older than him but is easily sixty years younger doting over the many scars etched into his arms and torso. 

Geralt rolls his shoulders, trying very hard not to appear cowed. “No. Just don’t make it too tight. I’d like to be able to move around without ripping anything.”

The unspoken need to have such movement in the event of a fight reverberates through the warm air louder than his voice does. Marlene nods, then helps him shrug into a dark grey cotton shirt, one far softer than he normally wears, and then the silk trousers that make up the first half of the ball wear. 

Surprisingly, Geralt fills out the suit well, with little alterations needed to be made. He’s able to swing his arms over his head, and the silver wolfsbane embroidery down the chest and sides of the trousers matches his hair rather nicely. Marlene even swaps out the simple leather tie holding back the hair from his face with a flashy silver ribbon that catches the light every time Geralt turns his head. 

Marlene smiles, pleased, at the rather attractive (and uncomfortable) picture Geralt cuts in the suit. The black fabric is dark and absorbs the firelight rather than reflecting it like so many silks tend to do, and the detailing isn’t obtrusive in the least. The cuffs are low, but leave enough slack for Geralt to flex his wrists, and when he twists, the fabric around his hips doesn’t creak with the strain of containing him.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says with a finality of someone accepting that it really isn’t but he has no choice. Marlene smiles wider and pats his chest, accepting his begrudging praise with grace.

“Come by before leaving tomorrow, the changes that need to be made will be done by then,” she says. “I promise not to restrict you, dear Witcher.”

Geralt sighs. He undresses without a word, careful not to knock out the pins Marlene had placed in the suit to mark places that need adjusting. He shrugs into his own clothes in a hurry, flipping up the hood of his cloak and pointedly waiting for Jaskier to lead him out before saying anything. 

Jaskier tosses an amused look to Marlene before waving goodbye to her and holding the door open for Geralt. The Witcher escapes, breathing a near imperceptible sigh of relief once the door clicks closed behind him.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Jaskier says. “For supposedly not having any feelings, you sure are dramatic, Geralt.”

“I’m regretting agreeing to go to this already,” Geralt growls. “If I have to lift my sword in any way at this thing —“

“I said it would be fine,” Jaskier says quickly, “and I mean it. It’s just a party. That’s all, darling.”

Geralt exhales deeply through his nose. His eyes are bright in the shadow of his hood, but he doesn’t put up much more of an argument. The next morning, Geralt dresses in the altered suit without complaint. He allows Jaskier to run a fine toothed comb through his freshly cleaned hair and to tie back the strands with the silver ribbon Marlene had given him. He looks like he did that night at Pavetta’s wedding, that night that seems so long ago, now — dashing and clean and for once, just a man, not a Witcher.

Jaskier dresses in his favourite pale blue doublet and straps his lute case on his back before meeting Geralt out in the stables next to the inn. Roach has already been brushed down and saddled, her coat gleaming in the torchlight. Geralt glances him up and down, something like warm approval in his eyes, then gestures to Roach beside him.

“Up,” he says. 

Jaskier snorts. “There you go again. Breaking every well-worn convention about Witchers in one syllable or less.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, his lips twitching up into a grin. “I can leave you here and go collect your coin myself.”

“No, no,” Jaskier says. He mounts Roach and hands off his lute to Geralt, who straps it to her saddlebags and then mounts up behind him. “I think I’d rather like to do that myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again, amused. He gathers his cloak around the both of them, bundling Jaskier up against his chest, then flicks Roach’s reigns. She ambles out into the wet drizzle of the afternoon, her shoes clicking against the flagstones as she canters down the lane towards Oxenfurt’s eastern gate. Jaskier tries desperately not to dwell on how close they are, on Geralt’s initiation of such contact and the hours they still have to go until they get to Countess Henrietta’s estate. He focuses instead on the dreary landscape around them, humming ballads and sonatas under his breath, pretending he doesn’t feel how the Witcher behind him seems to relax as he does.

Thankfully, the rain doesn’t get any worse, and they arrive at the gates of the Countess’ estate in under two hours. Only their hands and the bottoms of their sleeves are wet, Geralt having steered Roach clear of any muddy puddles as they travelled, a much better state than Jaskier expected them to arrive in given the weather. Geralt reluctantly relinquishes Roach into the kind hands of the young stablehand, then follows Jaskier through the estate a little closer than normal, tense and alert.

“Just try and have a good time,” Jaskier attempts to soothe. “You’re here as Geralt of Rivia, and no more. No contract, no hidden agenda — just a nice party with nice music provided by yours truly.”

Geralt snorts. “Really? You’re settling on just _nice_ now?”

“A humble bard makes a profitable one,” Jaskier sings.

“You’re far from humble,” Geralt grumbles. “But fine. Try and keep it in your pants, Jaskier.”

Jaskier desperately wants to, but with rainwater still clinging to Geralt’s hair and his tall frame cutting a nice figure in his doublet, he thinks he may find it hard to do. But he nods, and smiles, and prays to all the gods in the heavens that Geralt doesn’t notice his blush as the Witcher ambles away towards the refreshments at the back of the ballroom.

Thankfully, Countess Henrietta wants him to start playing right away, so he doesn't get time to dwell. Jaskier joins the other musicians at their little stage near the steward’s table, beginning the evening with quiet serenades and brief jigs to wake up those that have been here and greet those that are still arriving. Soon, the hall is filled with loud conversation and even louder music, accompanied by the bustle of partygoers getting up and beginning to dance.

This is, quite possibly, Jaskier’s favourite part of performing. The light, the noise, the thrum of energy as the alcohol begins to loosen people’s inhibitions and decorum. They’re polite, yes, but the dancing gets more lively and soon even the Countess is taking part in the jaunts Jaskier strums effortlessly. He sings louder to account for the rise in laughter and conversation, picks harder at the strings of his lute that will surely need replacing after such a vigorous night of entertaining. He joins in with the dancing sometimes, when someone tugs him away from the band and doesn’t seem to mind that he continues playing as he goes. No one knows him here beyond his accomplishments as Master Bard — Master Dandelion — and he revels in it, the noise, the laughter, the echo of lute strings and violin bow bouncing back at him in a pleasant reverb. 

It isn’t until hours later when he allows himself a break, fingers aching and throat dry. He excuses himself as politely as he’s able and slinks to the refreshments, avoiding the worst of the alcohol for some apple wine instead. He casts his gaze around for a familiar head of white, and after making a circuit of the ballroom without finding it, frowns rather petulantly.

He knows Geralt isn’t much for parties. In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea to ask him to come. He was antisocial even on good days, and the promise of coin and alcohol was a low blow even for Jaskier. He bites his lip and casts about along the outskirts of the ballroom, searching groups gathering for conversation and the wide balcony looking out into the dark, dreary night, still spattering with rain. He finally decides to poke his head out of the ballroom into the hall just outside of it, spying some smaller groups and couples finding solace in the quieter entryway where the echo of conversation and dancing isn’t as strong. 

Then, right as he’s about to give up his search and return rather morosely to the ballroom, he spots a flash of silver ribbon in the low light at the end of the hall. Jasker sighs in relief and tries not to sprint after Geralt, counting on the Witcher’s elevated hearing to announce his presence.

“I thought you’d left,” Jaskier says, unable to quite keep the hurt from showing through his tone. Geralt turns to face him, his expression twisted in discomfort, his arms crossed. He’s holding himself rather stiffly, Jaskier realizes, and he’s standing as far away from the entrance to the ballroom without leaving this wing of the estate altogether.

“Couldn’t hear,” Geralt grits out. He winces as the doors to the ballroom are flung open, a bubble of noise bursting forth after a couple exists before it’s muted again by the doors closing. Dawning overcomes Jaskier and he moves closer, setting a gentle hand on one of Geralt's tense biceps.

“I’m sincerely sorry, my friend,” Jaskier says. “If I had been thinking, I wouldn’t have asked you to come. I thought the food and drink would be enough to get you to unwind, maybe as a sendoff before you had to go to Kaer Morhen, but I didn’t think it’d be —“ Jaskier sighs, dropping his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt blinks, the sour look on his face briefly loosening in confusion. “Kaer Morhen? You mean you wanted me here so we could —“

“Winter is terribly lonely without you, darling,” Jaskier finishes lamely. No sense in hiding his intentions now, not that he could if he wanted to. 

Geralt’s expression softens. He drops his arms, glancing around like anyone might spot them simply chatting and find it scandalous. Then his eyes land on Jaskier, kind and without heat. “Do you want to leave?”

He kind of does, but the coin — “You go,” Jaskier says. “I’ve still got a few hours of entertaining to do. But if I had known this would irritate your sensitive Witcher-y ears, I wouldn’t have asked you here in the first place.”

Geralt looks like he’s been sucker-punched. “It’s not the music that bothers me…”

He trails off, and in the background, the band resumes playing, the sound of flute and fiddle bouncing through the hall. Geralt frowns, trying very hard not to look like it hurts, but Jaskier knows better. 

“Say hello to Roach for me, would you?” Jaskier says brightly. He pats Geralt’s arm and steps away, swinging his lute back around to his front. “I wouldn’t want her to think I forgot about her, too!” 

Geralt doesn’t give a reply. He simply watches as Jaskier turns and leaves, his gaze a hot brand on the back of the bard’s neck. Jaskier joins his companions and picks up at the next bar, jumping headfirst into the song as if it could drown out the guilt he feels clinging to his lungs and throat. The sensation gets worse and worse as the night seems to drag on, especially when drunk patrons start making requests for songs about the White Wolf of Rivia. 

Jaskier complies, of course. His heart gives a painful squeeze every time, but he can’t say no, not even when it hurts.

——

The moon is beginning to peak out from the clouds when the party finally winds down enough that music is no longer wanted. People begin to file home or find their rooms, if they were lucky enough to be asked to stay, or pass out in their chairs altogether. Jaskier bows to his fellow musicians, thanking them for their enthusiasm and stamina, and does the same with Countess Henrietta when she hands over his coin.

“You’ve a spectacular way with music,” she says, a beatific smile on her face. “It’s a shame you aren’t more readily available the rest of the year. I’d love to have you perform more frequently at my soírees.”

Jaskier pockets the heavy coin purse before he can think to deny it. Half of this is Geralt’s, anyway — if he can manage to find him, of course. “My lady, you flatter me. But where do you think these songs come from? From a dark basement at the Academy?”

The joke lands, and the Countess smiles wider, cheeks pink. “Well. You always have a place here, Master Jaskier. Please don’t hesitate to drop by unannounced.”

Jaskier politely dodges accepting such an underhanded request. “Have a wonderful rest of your night, Countess,” he says, and then he’s gone, striding down the hall scattered with small groups of patrons not quite drunk enough to stagger home. The air outside the estate is crisp and wet, and Jaskier takes a deep, calming breath once he’s free of the main building, trying not to feel abandoned even though this whole situation is his doing.

He’s rounding the corner to the stables to possibly ask after purchasing a ride back to Oxenfurt on one of the Countess’ horses when a warm hand snatches his wrist. His heart leaps to his throat and he yanks his arm away, yelping only a little (alright, maybe a lot) when the hand yanks back, pulling him into a hard chest rumbling with quiet laughter. It takes exactly five seconds for Jaskier’s heart to finish choking him enough to get words out, and when he does, his voice is three octaves higher than normal.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts. “You could’ve given me a heart attack — or worse! A, a, a _panic_ attack, or something! Something worse than a heart attack but not as deadly, please, I really am too young and pretty and talented to die.”

Geralt releases him and crosses his arms, his expression soft. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, wiping invisible dirt off the front of his doublet. He swallows thickly, feeling oddly hot despite the cool night air. “I thought you left? The noise wasn’t too much, was it?”

“It was,” Geralt hums. “But I stayed. Outside, where I could still hear you, but not the shouting so much.”

Jaskier’s guilt melts away in an instant. Not all of it, but enough for a flood of warmth to take its place, and he smiles. “Aw, you were _listening_ to me! Admit it, Geralt. You like my singing!”

Geralt’s nose wrinkles. “No.”

“You do!”

“I don’t.”

“It’s alright.” Jaskier sighs happily. He skips past Geralt to Roach, who has her head over a stall door with her ears perked toward them. “I’ll keep your secret. No one has to know that Geralt of Rivia finds my soothing tenor so attractive.”

“Not if I hide your body first.”

Geralt is much closer than he had been, and it should scare Jaskier how quietly the Witcher can move. But it only provides comfort, having him so close. There were many ways Geralt pushed people away, many ways that Jaskier found himself on the receiving end of, and yet he only wielded them against a sworn few. The majority of the time, though, he kept himself carefully neutral, and only now is Jaskier beginning to see the stark contrast between this warm, amiable Geralt and the Witcher the rest of the world receives.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says quietly. He pets Roach’s soft nose, smiling as she pushes against his palm. He can’t meet Geralt’s eyes, not now that he feels too raw and remorseful. “I really am.”

Geralt hums and sidles up next to him, reaching out to stroke Roach as well. “I said it’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“Good.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier tugs the coin purse out of his pocket and holds it out in his palm. “You can take half. With gratuity, we made a neat fifteen hundred. Not too bad, considering how drunk everyone was.”

Geralt closes his palm with his own. His hands are rough, dry with calluses, but pleasant. If he wasn’t a Witcher, Jaskier wouldn’t be concerned about hiding his blush from him in the low light of the stable, yet he tips his chin.

“Keep it,” Geralt hums quietly. “You deserve it.”

The softness of his tone brooks no argument. Jaskier pockets the coin and moves to help Geralt get Roach saddled, but Geralt shakes his head.

“Let me,” is all he says, his tone still quiet. It warms Jaskier down to his bones, and he nods, stepping back with his lute clutched in his hands to keep them from wringing at the edge of his doublet.

When Roach is tacked, Geralt dons his cloak and swings himself up into the saddle. He holds his hand out to Jaskier, and without a word from either of them, effortlessly pulls the bard up into the seat ahead of him like before. He wraps Jaskier in his cloak, pulls up the hood, and heels Roach into moving. 

As they meander down the dirt road back to Oxenfurt, the fields come alive around them, the wheat churring with insects and the distant forest hooting and howling with wildlife. Behind Jaskier, Geralt is warm — and under his breath, as if afraid to be found out, the Witcher hums the tune to _Toss a Coin._


	4. Touch

_ “Not much is known or documented about a Witcher’s ability to feel pleasure or pain. Their emotional capacity is nonexistent, so it’s speculated that a Witcher does not have the ability to derive satisfaction from the touch of a woman, nevermind to feel pain. It is this capacity - or lack thereof - that makes a Witcher the deadly killing tool they are, and why extensively documenting a Witcher’s abilities is so important. They walk like us, talk like us, and sometimes look like us, but a Witcher is a beast like all the others, and should be treated with the same careful respect. There is no telling how much a Witcher can take before he collapses, so err on the side of caution, and never try your luck where a Witcher’s tolerance is involved.” _

_ — Master Belgravius, “Monsters and Those Who Hunt Them: A Guide to the Beast Known as the Witcher”, Chapter V, page 156 _

Wintering without Geralt is hard, but he’s done it before, years and years of letting go and stepping back for the sake of preserving whatever modesty they decide is enough. Their friendship takes precedence, Jaskier has to remind himself. Being amongst the few people Geralt calls  _ friend _ is more important than begging for more.

And yet he does, and it hurts, and what is a poet to do with his heart leaping leagues above the clouds? He writes, and composes, and while he may call himself a humble bard, Oxenfurt hasn’t revelled in such dramatic heartbreak the likes of his in a very long time.

He sings his agony that winter, for the people and the city and the land and the stars. Oxenfurt is beautiful in the winter, close enough to the sea to avoid the worst of the snow but northern enough to still experience the clean, crisp frost in the morning before the sun peeks out and melts it away. Its beauty is a small comfort, but a welcome one nonetheless, and he tries to soak it in to replace the empty space inside him where Geralt should be.

But with the coming of winter also comes its eventual passing. The days begin to last longer, the sun setting later and later. Fishermen begin to cast out to try their luck in the reefs, and merchants start to dress their stalls for the morning markets again. Farmers start plowing their fields once the ground thaws and the heavy rains stop, and more often than not, the view out the window in the morning is a sunny one instead of a cloudy one. Slowly spring’s fingers begin to take gentle hold across the city, and with it comes the ability to travel.

He avoids going any further north even though his heart calls for it, instead turning south where the weather is a little more agreeable. Parts of Velen are still rather unsafe as Nilfgaard makes its ever-encroaching advance across the Continent, so he sticks to the highways, cloaking himself in the safety travelling merchants and Redgard soldiers provide. 

Besides, Kaer Morhen is likely still frozen over, the caps of the Blue Mountains tipped white in bright reflective snow. Geralt won’t risk Roach, and he’s not known for being impatient. Jaskier, however, is, and finds it hard to continue on his own despite everything.

His new ballads are hits at every town he travels to, though, and the coin flows freer than it does in a whorehouse everywhere he goes. His purse is heavier than it’s been in a long time, so when the opportunity arises, he buys a nice room in an expensive tavern on the border of Toussaint, reveling in the balmier weather and the excitement buzzing in the air as the yearly Tourney creeps closer and closer.

It’s during an upbeat evening on his second night with a rowdy crowd that the unexpected happens. The door to the tavern bangs open, hitting the wall with a  _ crack,  _ and in staggers a sopping wet figure with two sword hilts poking over his shoulder and the head of a royal wyvern clutched in his fist.

“Killed your dragon,” the figure rasps, and if his silhouette in the doorway wasn’t enough to give him away, Jaskier would recognize that rough voice anywhere.

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps. His lute makes a strangled twang as he grips the neck mid-strum — he barely has the presence of mind to swing it across his back and not drop it to the floor in his haste to cross the press of bodies gathering around the swaying Witcher. The fact that he’s  _ swaying _ makes the panic jittering under Jaskier’s skin all the more intense. Geralt doesn’t stagger, and he doesn’t sway, not unless he’s —

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, quieter, as he finally worms his way through the crowd and wraps his arm around the Witcher’s midsection. Geralt wheezes, something like a pained groan escaping him, his weight suddenly sagging down onto Jaskier’s shoulder, the wyvern’s head thumping to the ground in a wet splat of dark blood. Jaskier valiantly tries to stifle the choke of breath as all of Geralt’s weight drops onto him without warning, and manages only barely to steer him away from collapsing against the wall by dragging his armored arm around his neck.

“Make way, please,” Jaskier manages. He takes a heavy step forward, and Geralt, somehow, does as well, however uncoordinated. “My friend here is quite injured, you see, and is in need of a nice hot bath if you wouldn’t mind, innkeep!”

The shapely woman behind the bar scrambles to order her three daughters to fetch water while Jaskier coaxes Geralt up the stairs. Someone offers to take the wyvern’s head for a substantial amount of coin, and if Jaskier were in any mood to haggle, he’d say no — but with an armful of bleeding Witcher, he accepts graciously, taking Geralt’s pained silence as proof enough that that was probably who had asked for the wyvern’s timely demise.

One of the innkeeper's daughters holds the door to his room open as the two of them wobble across the threshold. Geralt is getting heavier and heavier as he begins to tip forward, a sure sign that he may collapse at any moment. Jaskier manages to keep him upright enough to get his sword harness unbuckled, shoving it off his shoulder with a clatter of steel and silver. And then, they both fall, Geralt hitting the mattress face first while Jaskier gets pinned halfway underneath him with an undignified squawk.

“You weigh more than a rock troll,” Jaskier wheezes. Geralt’s shoulder digs into his ribs uncomfortably, but he doesn’t even growl when Jaskier manages to wiggle out from under him.

“Seriously, Geralt,” Jaskier says, quieter. “Did you kiss the thing or kill it?”

“More than one,” Geralt rumbles, his voice muffled against the blankets.

“Never stopped you before.”

“Hmm.” 

Geralt starts to move, trying to get his limbs to obey even though it’s visibly difficult for him to do so. Jaskier shoves his hands away, only able to keep the surprise of being able to do so out of his voice because it finally sinks in that Geralt is  _ here. _

“Let me,” Jaskier says quietly. Geralt drops his hands, rolling over to possibly glare but thinking better of it at the last second, his eyes screwed shut. Jaskier gives a soothing smile, then touches Geralt’s side, trying to pacify if Geralt won’t look at him. “Please.”

Geralt hums, but the sound is one of trust and fatigue instead of wariness. The innkeeper’s daughters clatter in and out of the room behind them, dumping steaming water into the wooden tub across the room, but strangely, he doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmm,” he hums. And then he relaxes, a moody, bloody heap of black leather sinking into the bed again, smelling distinctly of swamp water and charred earth from probably abusing  _ igni _ against the wyvern’s sensitive belly. 

Jaskier smiles. “Good. Lay there like a good boy while I fetch the saddlebags. I assume Roach is comfortable in the stables next door?”

Geralt grunts. It’s an affirmative grunt instead of an angry one, so Jaskier hops to his feet, jumps over the heap of bloody swords on the floor, and practically runs out of the inn to the stables to fetch Geralt’s bags. 

Roach, thankfully, is unharmed, and her tack has already been shed and cleaned by the attentive stablehand. She whickers when he gets near, so he reaches a hand out to her nose for pets, which she gracefully accepts. 

“It’s good to see you, too, girl,” he coos. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

She huffs through her nose, then tosses her head as if she were laughing. Jaskier smiles, then slings the saddlebags over one shoulder and Geralt’s knapsack over the other, noting how light they both are compared to when they usually travel together. 

_ Well, he’s a Witcher,  _ was the usual justification for Geralt going without. However unhealthy, he could go long periods without eating, and it wasn’t altogether uncommon for Geralt to go several weeks without work. Humans are fickle creatures, and almost always sensed the  _ otherness _ of Geralt long before he made himself explicitly known. It’s what drives him away from some populated places, even with Jaskier’s ballads and accolades preceding him. 

But coming down from Kaer Morhen like this? With meager rations and a potion supply that would put any self-respecting Witcher to shame if he were to hope for a long life of monster slaying?

Jaskier climbs the stairs to his room (ignoring the curious glances thrown his way) and carefully pushes the door open, a scathing remark hot on his tongue. But then he finds the tub full and the room empty, quiet except for Geralt’s slow, hitched breathing, as if he can barely take a deep breath before a broken rib or strained muscle stops him. The brief anger and guilt dies in his throat, then, and with the gentlest of sounds, Jaskier sets the bags beside the tub and closes the door. 

There’s also the slow drip of blood hitting the hardwood floor as it slips down the toe of his boots, but at this point, Jaskier’s heart has already twisted itself into worried knots.

“Awake?” Jaskier asks quietly. Geralt hums, but stays still, allowing Jaskier’s hands to skate up the back of his armor with featherlight touches. There’s new gashes in the leather, spots punctured and rent through, revealing torn linen and slashed flesh underneath. Jaskier bites his lip and settles his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, trying to move slowly and deliberately so Geralt has time to anticipate him. “Tell me if it’s too much, hmm?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier snorts, then settles himself more carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching out, his bottom lip worrying between his teeth. 

He needs to see. Needs to confirm this isn’t a dream, needs to ease the painful, gnarled lump in his chest that tells him this is wrong. Geralt doesn’t go this far south, not so soon, not without wandering around Oxenfurt before spring properly sets in, searching for Jaskier without outright saying he’s looking for him. They have a routine, he and this Witcher — there’s a rhythm to this dance they’ve performed over so many years. It’s hard to think of this as anything other than a well-crafted fantasy — it’s hard to believe Jaskier isn’t asleep right now, nursing heartache as he longs for the song of this particular wolf howling on the winds. 

He reaches out and carefully scoops away Geralt’s sopping wet hair, careful not to tug on the simple braid fraying into flyaways at his temples, revealing a gash across his face that’s stained his cheeks red. The blood soaks underneath his collar, quick and bright, glueing his left eye shut as the blood dries in his eyelashes. It looks painful, even with Witcher biology, and Jaskier winces as he accidentally brushes his fingers against the gash as he helps Geralt sit up, every movement a painful chore. 

Geralt flinches at every touch, but every time Jaskier moves to back away, he looks dangerously close to falling over. Jaskier tries not to let his hands rest too long at any one place, careful of ripped leather and oozing wounds — so much of him is cut up and flayed open. The wyverns practically pummelled him to death, and if Jaskier hadn’t known any better, he’d think Geralt had some sort of deathwish. Never has he looked this bad after a hunt, not even when he begrudgingly asked for Jaskier’s help to clean and stitch wounds too deep to wait for his natural healing to take care of. Never has Geralt so willingly leaned against him, seeking touch even though it must be killing him to move, seeking comfort in a familiarity that has Jaskier’s heart aching.

“You need to be more careful,” Jaskier murmurs. “Just the repairs on your armor alone —“

“I’m fine.”

Jaskier scoffs. “And I’m the Queen of Cintra. Really, Geralt. How you managed to get yourself here without falling over is a wonder in itself.”

Geralt’s nose scrunches. He begins to fumble with the ties on his armor, his fingers uncoordinated and slow. Jaskier gently shoves them out of the way and takes over, starting with his gloves and vambrace. They’re both wet and slippery with mud, as if Geralt had been struggling to stay upright, so Jaskier sets them aside to be cleaned and dried before starting on the chestpiece.

Geralt sucks in a pained breath as it comes off, his arms lifting stiffly and then dropping heavily at his sides with a thump. The leather jerkin peels away from the inside of the chestpiece in places, sticky with blood and sweat, portions of it ripped far beyond repair. It comes off just as slowly, Geralt’s battered body moving in jerky, short movements, his face screwed up in an obvious effort to keep himself quiet. Jaskier drapes the jerkin across the end of the bed, making a mental note to buy a new one before Geralt can attempt to mend this one.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. With the armor off, now Jaskier can see the extent of the damage done — Geralt is pocked with teeth wounds and slash marks, some deeper than others, all of them trickling blood down his pale, bruised sides. His shirt is beyond saving so Jaskier places his hands inside a particularly large tear and rips it apart. The shirt rends in a shriek of abused linen, and Geralt shrugs out of it without a word. His chest heaves with short breaths and he looks close to passing out, but he doesn’t argue, patiently waiting for the next press of Jaskier’s hands to tell him what to do. 

And then, as the fire starts to really brighten the room, Jaskier sees the glassy black reflection of Geralt’s eyes squinting up at him when he moves forward to coax Geralt to his feet, barely slits but enough to tell he’s having trouble seeing. It’s a familiar black reflection, one Jaskier only sees during the darkest of nights and the hardest of fights. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier curses. He sucks in a breath when Geralt winces at the volume of his voice, his shoulders hunching together. “I didn’t realize you’d taken a potion. Of course you would have, why wouldn’t you against a wyvern?  _ Multiple _ wyverns? Gods, I’m an  _ idiot;  _ here, hold this over your face. Let me help.”

Jaskier presses Geralt’s ruined shirt to his eyes to cover them and helps him across the room to the tub. Geralt doesn’t fuss when he drops his trousers and smallclothes, only sighs painfully through his nose as he sinks into the hot water, inch by agonizing inch. Steam curls against its surface as it ripples along the edge of the tub, and in any other situation, this would be turning into quite a pleasant evening. But then the water begins to turn pink, then red, then a muddy dark brown, and it takes Jaskier’s entire force of will not to pummel Geralt again into next week.

Instead, he huffs and places himself between the fire and Geralt’s face, reaching up to lower the Witcher’s trembling hands from his eyes. He peels away the blood-soaked cloth and drops it at his knees, carefully cupping water in his palms to lift it over Geralt’s head. He does this instead of dunking him, trying to go slow because of his wounds, trying not to aggravate healing flesh while Geralt struggles to open his eyes. He finds a soft cloth in his bag and dips it in the rusty water, dabbing at Geralt’s forehead and temples, squeezing it so the blood washes away in rivulets down his high cheekbones and chin. 

He continues like that for a while as Geralt slowly sinks into the tub. His hair fans out in gentle curls in the water, and Jaskier runs his fingers through it too to loosen debris and dirt that had gotten caught in it while Geralt killed the wyverns. He pulls out the leather cord holding the queue together and massages his scalp directly under it, smiling a little when Geralt lets out a quiet breath as he does. He’s such an imposing figure even now, soaking in his own blood and exhaustion, but he’s also a soft one, a gentle one. He deserves this care just like anyone else, and Jaskier is determined to give it to him.

The blood slowly washes away after a long time of soaking, leaving Geralt pale-skinned and semi-relaxed in the cooling water. He doesn’t open his eyes again for a while, but when he does, the flash of gold edging viper-thin pupils sets Jaskier at ease. The cut above Geralt’s brow turns out to be a minor one, only looking worse because face wounds bleed a lot — already it’s closing, like some of the smaller wounds and bruises across Geralt’s shoulders. Jaskier dabs a cloth across them, careful to keep his touch light, rinsing away seeping blood to keep them clean.

The water is dark when Jaskier decides to wake Geralt from the shallow nap he’d slipped into and wheedle him into some dry trousers. He pushes Geralt down onto the edge of the bed and rubs salve from his pack around each gash and bite, deliberate and slow. Geralt doesn’t flinch, now, doesn’t jerk away when his touch is too heavy or he presses too hard as he wraps and packs each wound. He takes it with an abundance of patience Jaskier hasn’t ever seen, sitting quietly with his hands limp at his sides, moving this way and that with Jaskier’s gentle instruction.

It’s strange, but welcome. Having gone all winter without seeing him, and having him here, quiet and unobtrusive and yet still quintessentially  _ Geralt _ — it’s nice. His heart eases, his body releasing some unforeseen tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding onto. Geralt is hurt, and likely very poor right now, but he’s here, where he’s supposed to be, at Jaskier’s side.

“How’d you end up this far south?” Jaskier asks quietly. Geralt’s eyes flutter open and he looks up at Jaskier, expression neutral and yet something in those yellow eyes is hiding something.

“You weren’t in Oxenfurt,” he says simply. “So I followed the work.”

“The Path doesn’t take you this far south very often, and you know me, Geralt,” Jaskier says with a laugh. Geralt is guarded, but he’s putty in Jaskier’s hands, leaning into his touch as he ties off a bandage across his chest. “As soon as the snows let up, I’m moving. I needed to warm my bones from spending all winter cooped up.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. When Jaskier is done, putting his hands on his hips with a small triumphant  _ tada!, _ Geralt leans forward. His forehead presses against Jaskier’s sternum, a heavy, warm weight, and slowly, as if he might startle Jaskier more than he has, he raises his arms and wraps them tightly about Jaskier’s middle.

He rests there, holding Jaskier like that, for a while. His breathing eases even as Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat, every sore muscle and aching bone settling down into a heap of relaxed Witcher around him. It takes a few moments, but then Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, tracing his fingers through his soft hair as it curls between his shoulder blades.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to break this spell hanging over them, but — “Is there something wrong?”

He feels Geralt pick at the hem of his doublet, a gentle touch so out of place that it nearly makes Jaskier’s knees weak. “No,” Geralt rumbles. “Nothing’s wrong.”

That touch continues further up, Geralt’s wide hands splaying across his back. He tips back, bringing Jaskier down on top of him as he squeezes the bard against his chest. He turns on his side, giving Jaskier the unspoken option to run away, but there’s nowhere he’d rather be — not with him warm and whole, right here, however battered and exhausted he may be.

Instead, Jaskier settles on his side, Geralt’s head cradled gently against his chest. He imagines his heartbeat must be too fast for the Witcher, too quick for a man that can control such trivial things, but he finds he doesn’t care if Geralt knows how quick it beats for him. Geralt’s fingers trace the delicate embroidery of his clothing, calluses catching and slipping over the fine fabric in turns. It’s entirely alien and yet soothing all at once, and Jaskier finds his hands wandering as well, fingers taking up silver strands of hair and braiding it back from Geralt’s face.

They lay like that until the fire dies down and the noise of the tavern below them finally eases into nothing. By then, Geralt’s fingers have explored the length and breadth of Jaskier’s doublet, have unlaced the front to touch and rub the finer sheer chemise underneath between his rough fingertips. He’s untucked it from Jaskier’s trousers and ventured further, sword-rough hands tickling across the soft skin of hips and ribs and shoulders, feeling out a range of Jaskier he has never known and never bothered to ask after. If Jaskier were a weaker man, he’d have denied him — but Jaskier is not, has not been, and will never be.

His poet’s heart won’t allow it. Heartbroken he may be, but this, this touch of a lover, this exploration of him that Geralt has shown no interest in until now — he wonders what has happened to trigger it. Why Geralt chased him here, why he felt the need to do this instead of putting ten paces of space between them like usual. 

It’s the dragon hunt all over again. Hot and cold, dizzying and confusing, a loyal and protective friend but also a cruel and vindictive one. That was far in the past, long forgiven and not forgotten. This is better, Jaskier thinks, a step in the direction he longs for. This is what he sings about, what he writes about, what he screams to the heavens every night the gods permit him to. This is the song of the White Wolf, and he so dearly wants to memorize it, to take in every soft breath and careful touch, every stolen moment like this, just like this —

“Thank you,” he finds himself saying. Into Geralt’s hair, in the dark, with crickets chirping outside and Geralt’s deep breathing warm against his neck.  _ Thank you,  _ he says,  _ for this, for you, for everything. _

Geralt doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Not with his arms tightening around him, the soft hum escaping him, the unspoken promise that he’ll be here in the morning. Jaskier likes to think he’s fluent in Witcher body language, but he doesn’t mind learning this new language, this new side to Geralt of Rivia. It’ll be a slow, painful process, one of life and heartbreak. He’ll sing about it all the way because that’s what he was born to do, but also because this, moments like  _ this,  _ deserved their time immemorial like all the great ballads and war stories, too.


	5. Taste

_ “Like touch, whether a Witcher can perceive the bittersweet velvet of fine chocolate or the heavy spice of a fresh persimmon is up for debate. Witchers are not known for oversharing information about themselves, and they’re even less likely to refer to each other to answer questions. Unfortunately, that means I do not have enough information on whether a Witcher seeks out the simple pleasures in life, or if he merely feeds an urge before moving on.” _

_ — Master Belgravius, “Monsters and Those Who Hunt Them: A Guide to the Beast Known as the Witcher”, Chapter V, page 180 _

Geralt is, in a word, efficient.

Having lived as long as he has, and having as many years stretching out in front of him as he does, it makes sense. A Witcher is trained from youth to be this way, to be as quick and deadly with any blade, any bow, any ad hoc weapon they come across to ensure victory and survival, in that order. A Witcher, by training and demand, is a ruthless, well-oiled automaton.

It’s what started the rumors of  _ Witchers have no souls. _ They’re brutal in their efficiency, and can seem careless, thoughtless, unempathetic. They have a Path they must walk, endless in its brutality, a Path without a destination and without pity. A Witcher is created for a purpose, and that purpose he must walk — and for the Path he must have routine.

Jaskier learns it the first night they camp together. Geralt begrudgingly shows him how to properly make a fire so it won’t burn the forest down during the night, and shows him how to set snares to catch dinner while they wind down from the day. Geralt’s wounds are already healing, while Jaskier is relatively unharmed — in spite of this, Geralt doesn’t make a move to discard his armor, sitting across the fire with a scowl on his face and bristling with barely-contained hatred.

“Come, now,” Jaskier tries, strumming the strings of his brand new elven lute. She needs a name, soon, but so far nothing has come to mind. “Surely the mighty White Wolf has nothing to fear from a  _ bard.” _

“Only you call me White Wolf,” Geralt grumbles, and how this man can make anything sound like a threat is beyond Jaskier. 

But it’s also intriguing. Heart-bending. He wants to know more, wants to see what Geralt sees, wants to walk in the shadow of a century and learn what he has to teach him. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkles. He opens his mouth to say something likely very mean and scathing (even though his face is quite handsome and oh, Jaskier is already composing a song about  _ that _ ) when not too far away, a  _ crack _ bounces through the air and Geralt is on his feet in a moment.

It’s one of the snares, Jaskier realizes, and he follows Geralt to one of them to watch him kill the rabbit quickly and with mercy. He carries it back by its long legs and skins it in one movement, laying the pelt out to dry and skewering its carcass over the fire to cook.

Well. Not the most glamorous of meals, and likely not the last to be had, but it fills the hole, as they say, and say what they will about Witchers being monsters, but nothing he had seen that day would be considered anything close.

And many meals like that are shared between them. Rabbits or birds cooked over an open fire, salted lightly because Geralt hadn’t not the space or the coin to have spices or rubs set aside specifically for eating. Already his bags bristle with dried herbs and potion bottles for consumption of a different nature, so Jaskier makes it a point to buy some pepper and thyme the next time they pass through a town, if nothing else than to see if Geralt notices.

He finds he prefers the meals shared over a campfire than the ones shared in taverns, and he learns that particular lesson rather quickly. Whereas Geralt easily lets his guard down while they’re at camp, unafraid of what little threat Jaskier may pose to him (as if he  _ could _ hurt Geralt, as if he wanted to, as if the thought would ever occur to him in a hundred years), he’s a completely different person when surrounded by strangers.

Sure, he doesn’t moan his pleasure at a meal well cooked or praise Jaskier for finally spicing the meat with something other than woodsmoke. But he’s appreciative, in his own surly way, and doesn’t feel the need to protect his food like a lone wolf protecting a carcass from scavenger birds.

Like now. Jaskier has to force himself not to leap across the table and beat the daylights out of the ogling patrons as they pass by, their unsubtle whispers of  _ That’s the Butcher _ and  _ a Witcher, a bad omen _ floating past them.

“Just ignore them,” he says, quietly, for only Geralt’s sensitive ears to hear. Geralt shoots him a glare that says he’s been  _ ignoring _ whispered insults such as these for longer than Jaskier has been alive, but then he relaxes, just a little, and starts eating the hearty stew the barmaid had set in front of him minutes ago instead of hoarding it against his chest like it might be stolen from him.

And, just like that, he  _ relaxes.  _ Not fully, not like he does when it’s just the two of them around a fire and not a creature around them for leagues except Roach. But his guard drops, just a little, allowing him to drop his gaze from any meager threat these drunkards may pose to him so he may eat something more substantial than jerky and hardtack.

Jaskier copies him, just to give him that extra layer of security. He tries to eat slowly so Geralt will match his pace to him, tries to savor each bite of soft venison and gritty potatoes. It’s a peasant’s fare, cooked for the townsfolk and really no one else. But there’s common herbs there, too, parsley and lemongrass and roots dug up for starch and really nothing else. Geralt paces himself, and Jaskier finishes in ten minutes what Geralt would have in two, and when they both push their bowls away, he seems satisfied.

He tries it again when they find a market stall in a large town selling pierogi, buying more than enough for Geralt’s appetite and his own. The unleavened dough is soft and flaky in equal parts, with a sweet apple filling that fills the air with its tartness as well as his mouth. Geralt, beside him, eats slowly, once again copying Jaskier’s pace of eating either unknowingly or on purpose. He picks at the dough and seems to relax as the apple preserve coats his tongue, warm and with a sweet undertone of brown sugar.

Jaskier buys two more before they leave that town, discreetly hiding them away in Geralt’s knapsack. When he takes stock of their things that night as Geralt hunts, he finds them gone, squirrelled away and eaten in secret, the scent of sugared apples following the Witcher around until the fire is built and woodsmoke covers it up.

He discovers that, while Geralt is very much a carnivore and prefers to sink his teeth into spiced beef and venison if the townspeople he saved don’t run him into the hills, his Witcher also has a terrible sweet tooth. The pierogi were one thing, and  _ bigos,  _ while sweet in its own way with cabbage and sauerkraut, pale in comparison to the candied fruit and boiled sugar found in the upper markets of Oxenfurt.

“Here,” Jaskier says. Geralt, over years of getting used to Jaskier’s pushy nature, obediently holds out his hand, barely paying attention until a small morsel is placed in the center of his rough palm. Jaskier grins when Geralt’s golden gaze flicks to him, and then the candy in his hand, looking at it as if it might snap at him.

“What,” Geralt says, rather succinctly and elegantly. 

“Try it,” Jaskier coaxes. He shakes the cheesecloth bag in his hand, rattling however dozens of candies he’s purchased from the amused old stall owner behind them. He pops one in his mouth, savoring the sweet, minty taste of the candy, rolling its uneven shape across his teeth and tongue.

Geralt, pupils nothing more than thin slits in the afternoon sun, watches him for one long, uneasy moment, then places the candy in his mouth. He can probably smell what it’s made of, and Jaskier convinces himself it’s why his face doesn’t screw up in disgust or surprise as the candy sits on his tongue. But the pure, unadulterated pleasure on his face is hard to ignore, even though on Geralt, it looks like he’s less constipated than usual. 

“See?” Jaskier says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Good, right? The delicate balance of sweet and minty?”

Geralt hums. And then he cracks the candy between his teeth, smiling a smug grin, and holds his palm out for another.

“I find  _ one _ thing you like,” Jaskier mock-pouts. He obeys, dropping three more in Geralt’s waiting hand, watching as Geralt consumes one at a time. He sucks on them properly instead of chewing them like a caveman, meandering behind Jaskier in the shadow of protection a human provides in a high-brow human market. His fingers caress soft bolts of silk and strings of colorful beads dangling from stalls casting a kaleidoscope of shimmering reflections across his hair and face, a dance of multifaceted stars across a plane of silver, and oh, that’s going into a song, too.

If only the White Wolf were human, he thinks, as his Witcher gets glares and insults hurled after him as he wanders. He’s a sight to behold, unarmored and unassuming — anyone else with white hair and he’d be left alone. But the yellow eyes, the guarded stance, the medallion around his neck and already he is marked as  _ other,  _ even as he enjoys the hiss of tulle across his scarred knuckles and the taste of sweet sugar on his lips.

A man that, Jaskier decides, is deserving of fine things. He won’t find them muddling through swamps slaying selkimores and wraiths and foglets — he’ll find them here, beside Jaskier, and he’s determined to dump all his coin to find out what Geralt likes.

So he buys.  _ Mákos _ don’t sit well with Geralt, making him sleepy and lethargic even though the sweet pastry is quickly eaten when given to him, and  _ chałka  _ doesn’t last long on the road. He manages to find  _ kremówka  _ only because a patron of the Academy in Oxenfurt asked for him to play personally at another ball, and the dessert table had been laden with all sorts of sweet jellied candies and cakes — watching Geralt hide away in a corner with powdered sugar on his fingers had been more of a delight than the sweets had been. He makes it one day in the early morning at a backwater inn they’re both staying at, surprising the Witcher with the sweet pastry instead of another ration of jerky.

Geralt had looked him up and down, assessing, and then had taken it slowly as if Jaskier would snatch it away at the last moment. He’d eaten it slowly, too, savoring each bite, and later had quietly touched Jaskier’s wrist as if to say thank you. 

The exhilaration of finding something Geralt enjoys — something he unabashedly appreciates, no matter how quietly he shows it, no matter how much his outward appearance screams this is just another meal to him — far outpaces any hesitation Jaskier may have about pushing boundaries. They’ve known each other for a long time now, and finding something new about such a long time friend is thrilling.

They’re passing through an as-yet untouched stewardship to the east of Novigrad, some leagues away from the wartorn farmlands that surround the city and its main holdings. It’s a beautiful place, a wealthy one, with a large town at the foot of the castle and a relatively peaceful lot of folk that don’t seem to mind hosting a Witcher.

Granted, said Witcher just rid them of a very large and bloodthirsty coven of bruxa that, until now, Jaskier wasn’t sure  _ existed.  _ That is, until one came blinking out of thin air snapping at his throat and very nearly killing him if it weren’t for Geralt’s silver blade severing her pretty, screeching head from her equally pretty, anorexic body with razor sharp claws.

Well. They don’t mind, and their bruxa problem is solved, but there are some dark looks thrown the Witcher’s way even then. Jaskier does his best to deflect them with song and lute, meandering before the Witcher like a censer to ill-tempered ghouls. It soothes, for a while, and Geralt is simply content to follow him as they wander, stopping every once in a while to purchase sword oil or replacement tools for repairing his armor.

It’s slow. Easy. And an exceptionally good morning to watch Geralt as he discreetly passes a stall selling sweet cherry tarts and home-baked pies and comes away holding a paper-wrapped square of oozing golden honeycomb.

Jaskier pretends not to notice. He lets Geralt eat it in peace, however (in)discreetly he may watch him do so. He definitely doesn’t take note of how relaxed the smell and taste seems to make him, and  _ definitely,  _ he swears on his mum, definitely doesn’t watch the way he licks honey from his fingertips after each bite. He doesn’t. He  _ swears. _

But it’s a start. It’s the first thing he’s chosen on his own, without Jaskier’s meddling and cajoling. He’s content to pick apart the comb and lick honey off the heel of his palm, none the wiser to Jaskier’s very direct staring. They pass through the town, Geralt swings himself upon Roach, and they’re on their merry way.

That is, Jaskier’s body is on their merry way. His brain, however, is overfull with images of Geralt’s unguarded pleasure at enjoying something simple, something easy, something he doesn’t need to fight or argue for. 

The next morning, Jaskier executes his plan. It’s hard, because Geralt is a light sleeper and it’s incredibly difficult to sneak around someone who can hear you sneeze from a mile away. But he manages to leave camp without waking Roach or Geralt, and reaches the town they’ve camped next to without running into monsters or equally monstrous bandits.

As with all working settlements, the townsfolk are up with the sun, readying their horses and packing up wagons. Jaskier trots across the muddy lane separating the two halves of the town to the tiny building crammed between the cobblers and a foggy greenhouse. The apothecary is warm when he pushes open the heavy oak door, a warm smile and quiet “Hello” greeting him as it closes behind him.

“Good morning,” he says pleasantly. “My, you’re awake quite early, aren’t you?”

The old woman behind the back counter snorts a rough laugh. “Well, aren’t you as well, young man?”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender. “Red-handed, ma’am.”

“Please don’t ma’am me. Only my son-in-law has ever called me ma’am.”

Jaskier bites his cheek to keep himself from laughing. The old woman peers at him, her dark eyes assessing, and Jaskier suddenly feels like fidgeting. 

“You don’t look ill,” she says at length. “Or particularly upset about someone else’s illness. What’s the matter, boy?”

Jaskier is far from a  _ boy,  _ thank you very much, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Well,” he says, sliding his hands across the smooth surface of the back counter. She eyes him, smiling. “I don’t have an illness per say. Not one of the body, anyway.”

“I don’t sell aphrodisiacs,” she quips sharply. 

Jaskier sputters. “I-I — well. Even if you did, I wouldn’t need them, thank you very much, I —“

“Does he know?”

“Listen, you — you —  _ you!  _ I’ve got a request, and it isn’t sexual in the  _ slightest,  _ and I would really appreciate it if you stopped looking at me like that because yes, I know, I’m doomed, but I’d like to do something  _ nice _ for him for once instead of being an overwhelming burden all the time!”

The old woman blinks at him, smiling knowingly. And then she turns, and Jaskier gapes as she reaches above her to a shelf brimming with plant oils and cat skulls and brings down a squat jar filled with a familiar golden liquid.

“Here,” she says, and sets the jar down with a heavy glass  _ thunk _ in front of him. “I believe this is what you were looking for.”

“Are you a sorceress?” Jaskier accuses lowly. “Because if you can read my mind, I want you to forget about everything you’ve seen. You’ve never seen me, never  _ met _ me. Thank you for your time but I have got to get the hell out of here —“

“Jaskier,” the old woman says. She laughs at his startled expression, but it isn’t a cruel laugh. She pushes the jar of honey towards him and pats his frozen hands. “Just take it, dear. The baker’ll let you use her kitchen if you give her a portion.”

Jaskier fumbles to take the honey jar, still gaping, probably catching flies. And then he leans close, dropping his voice as if there were anyone else besides the two of them in this tiny shop in the early hours of the morning.

“Can you tell the future?” 

The woman’s smile turns into a smirk. She leans close, meeting him halfway, and this close Jaskier can see that her dark eyes are a beautiful, rich shade of brown flecked with gold.

“You have nothing to worry about, Mister Pankratz,” she says. “A little sweetness goes a long way.”

He’s never run from a woman quicker than he does right then. But he does, and he swears he can hear her laughing at him all the way down to the baker’s.

The baker, thankfully, can’t read minds, and is more than happy to allocate a small parcel of countertop for him to work in exchange for some honey (and coin). So he sets to work, carefully measuring out flour and sugar and water and oil. His fingers get sticky with honey and the baker smiles at him as she watches him fold it into the soft mound of dough he’s created, watching him with a sort of fondness that comes from years of doing something she loves. 

She helps him time the baking process and in the meantime, he portions out dough for the day’s bread. She lets him take a thin wicker basket lined with a soft linen cloth once his creations are finished baking, teaching him how to properly fold the basket closed so no insects worm their way inside after the scent of sugar. When she turns back to her work, he slips a few more gold coins into her apron, slipping out the back door before she can scold him otherwise.

The sun is still low in the sky when he gets back, the morning crisp and cool, fog hugging the ground and robins flitting through the air. Jaskier tries to keep his steps quiet as he approaches camp, but when he rounds the copse of trees, he finds he needn’t have tried.

“Have an eventful morning?” 

Geralt is seated on a log he’s dragged over to the fire, his chestpiece in his lap and a needle in his hand. He doesn’t look up from his work, but he’s relaxed, his feet stretched towards the fire and his hair loosely tied out of his face in a simple braid Jaskier tied it in the night before. 

“I did, in fact,” Jaskier says brightly. “I got my mind read first thing this morning. Did you?”

Geralt snorts. “Can’t say I have.”

“Lucky me!”

Jaskier plops down next to him, making as much noise as possible just because he likes the annoyed, weak glare Geralt tosses his way. He sets the basket at his feet and pointedly waits until Geralt is finished pulling his thread tight to open it, barely able to contain his excitement.

Geralt, for all his carefully crafted composure, is easy enough to break. He blinks when he peers down into the basket, then looks up at Jaskier for the first time that morning, something like awe sitting hidden in his sharp gaze.

“You went baking?” he asks quietly, but it sounds like a completely different question. 

_ You did this for me? _ he’s really saying. Jaskier nods. He holds out a  _ kremówka,  _ still warm and flaky from the oven, smelling sweetly of honey and almonds. Geralt slowly sets aside his mending and takes it, watching Jaskier more than the food, waiting for something Jaskier doesn’t know how to say.

He wants to say a lot of things. Thank you, you’re welcome, I’m never leaving you, I love you.  _ I love you,  _ he screams to the heavens, loud and crystal clear, but it won’t escape his throat, not yet, not now. So he simply smiles, and takes up a pastry himself, carefully pulling it apart and taking a bite to encourage Geralt to do the same.

He doesn’t taste the honey, or sugar and slight bit of salt until Geralt finally raises it to his mouth and bites into his share. Jaskier reaches down and sets the half empty jar of honey between them, unscrewing the tin cap and dipping his finger in it. He dribbles it over his  _ kremówka _ and Geralt, quickly, does the same, and alongside the smell of smoke and morning dew is the warm, sweet edge of fresh dessert.

Geralt eats slowly, taking more than enough honey for himself as Jaskier quietly stops eating to let him have more. He doesn’t move, afraid to knock the Witcher out of his quiet breakfast, afraid to take his eyes off him as he eats without complaint. Eating, for Geralt, is usually a quick affair, done and over with before anything can be enjoyed. This time, though, he takes his time, and before either of them realize it, the basket is empty and the honey jar is only a quarter full.

“Was it alright?” Jaskier asks quietly, almost shyly. Geralt is looking down at his hands, but then his eyes are on Jaskier, assessing in a way that is, for once, without motive.

He looks —  _ happy.  _ Sated, in a weird way, like he hasn’t been in a long time. He killed a group of drowners yesterday, monotonous yet tiring work, and yet he looks for all the world like he’d just won a heavy sack of coin after doing nothing at all. He  _ smiles,  _ honest to gods, and Jaskier has to try very hard not to swallow his heart as it beats up his throat.

“It was,” Geralt rumbles. And just like that, he’s leaning forward, his lips sweet and sticky, and yeah, Jaskier is  _ definitely _ plying for his attention with honey more often.

——

Geralt is a Witcher, and with it comes its advantages.

He’s seen Geralt swipe aside a crossbow bolt without batting an eye, and has watched him hunt down a werewolf by scent alone. He’s seen Geralt bristle and hunker down in preparation for an intruder only he can hear, and has seen him navigate a dense forest on the darkest of moonless nights without downing a  _ cat _ potion. Geralt is a man with senses beyond what Jaskier can’t even begin to imagine, and he’s relied on them more than enough times to save his skinny hide.

But he’s also a tactile man, and a man that enjoys the little things long denied him. He likes sweet candied fruit and the feeling of silk against his palms, and he likes the smell of vanilla and chamomile. He likes his baths especially hot even on days when he comes back from a hunt without a scratch on him, and he likes the crunch of boiled sugar between his teeth and the soft velvet of Roach’s nose pressed against his cheek.

He likes the careful touch of Jaskier’s fingertips across his shoulders, the gentle tug of a comb through his freshly cleaned hair and the press of lips against his brow. He searches for Jaskier’s hands underneath the blankets on cold nights and sighs a deep, relaxed sigh when Jaskier presses hard, careful fingers into his knotted muscles. 

He’s capable of incredible things — capable of feats well beyond what even a trained human man is able to perform. He’s a century old with a legacy of protected, ancient knowledge folded away underneath a taciturn, reserved countenance. He’s a Witcher, Jaskier reminds himself, and yet —

And yet —

— he likes honey, and almonds, and smiles so small when he’s given these little pleasures. He cares, deeply, underneath this veneer of emotionless indifference. He’s a man of honor, and morality, and Jaskier takes pride in finding the little things that make the mighty Geralt of Rivia smile, even just a little. 

Even if it’s a little jar of honey. 


	6. +1

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier leans back, blinking slowly. He’s pretty sure he’s stepped into an alternate dimension,  _ pretty sure _ Geralt just kissed him silly without a care in the world. He’s smiling, a little uneven smile showing his crooked teeth, and Jaskier smiles back, nodding without thinking.

Geralt huffs a small laugh. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier says. “Come with you to your scary Witcher castle with your scary Witcher friends. You know I don’t own a horse, right?”

“Won’t need one most of the journey. We’ll walk.”

Jaskier chews on the inside of his cheek, entirely put-upon. “Really. You kiss me like that and then ask me to climb a mountain entirely on foot.”

Geralt, the cheeky bastard, leans forward and kisses him again. “Yes. Thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s heart flutters up his throat. He manages to not turn into a puddle of blushing bard as he wraps his arms around Geralt — an awkward position with the both of them seated and Geralt’s mending still in his lap. But he manages, and the warm press of his arms around him is a welcome, blessed affirmation.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Jaskier asks quietly.

Geralt hums. He turns his face into Jaskier’s hair, and this close, Jaskier can feel him speak more than hear him.

“Me, too,” he says. “For a long time. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier shakes his head. There’s no time for that — for apologies and heartache. They’re here now, together like they should be, with winter beginning to encroach upon them and an offer Jaskier couldn’t ever begin to think about refusing.

So they break camp and head to Novigrad. Jaskier doesn’t have the equipment to travel through the Blue Mountains, so he sings his heart out while Geralt kills every rotfiend and ghoul and royal wyvern that will earn him some coin. He’s exhausted most days, weary from hunting quickly to beat the frost slowly settling in, but they make it to Novigrad with heavy purses and not a day to spare.

Geralt shows him what to buy — a heavy fur lined cloak, long underwear, a wool jacket and boots with metal cleats embedded in their soles for walking through snow. They’re lined with soft, warm wool, and paired with the wool socks Geralt purchases, Jaskier is a walking furnace. They spend another day in the city so Roach can get new shoes and Geralt can fill their bags with rations and preserves, and then they’re on their way, setting out with the last of the season’s travellers, turning north towards Kaedwin instead of south with everyone else.

Jaskier has never been this far north, hasn’t ever seen the ground crust over with snow and the forest quiet into eerie stillness. It’s still green around them, pines and other evergreens bringing color to a world long turned white, but it’s quiet and odorless, their breaths puffing fog into the crisp air and nothing but the sound of their footsteps crunching through the snow. It’s too cold to play his lute, so Jaskier hums as he walks, relishing in the little smile it brings to Geralt’s face as they travel.

Kaer Morhen is a week’s trek into the mountains. It’s a miserable, freezing week, one spent travelling at a breakneck pace to beat the first real snowfall. So far it’s only a thin, breakable sheet across the ground, thin enough that it melts every morning and returns overnight. They hop from hunting lodge to hunting lodge, tiny one room buildings built long ago by Witchers centuries before them. But the hearths are warm, and they spend the nights curled up into each other under their blankets and furs, sharing breath and body heat and quiet conversation.

It’s a long, torturous week, one Jaskier isn’t quite sure won’t break him — but then, like the sun peeking through the dark clouds of a thunderstorm, he sees it. A legend, a song only sung to keep one’s children from wandering too far off the path lest a Witcher comes and snatches them away from their families, a place left only in memory: Kaer Morhen, tall and broken and proud. Even from across the valley Jaskier can see how she’s crumbling, but at the sight of her, Geralt relaxes, and Jaskier realizes this is the one true home he has left.

As they get closer, the damage to the keep becomes more apparent. Its outer wall has a sizable hole in it, and the stones of its mighty body are bleached white from centuries spent guarding its secrets in the mountain sun. They approach a side gate that is far from the grand entrance a great castle such as this is capable of having, its iron grate raised rather boldly in invitation. 

And then Jaskier realizes where he is and who he’s with and wants to kick himself. No one except a Witcher has the stamina to make it this far into the mountains without difficulty, and even if they did, the Witchers staying here would know well beforehand. Jaskier blinks away his surprise as they pass under the gate and imagines how many Witchers are here, what they look like, if they’re like Geralt or if they’re different people entirely. He presses close to Geralt’s side and the Witcher huffs a laugh, wrapping an arm around him and squeezing before letting go as they round a corner into a wide, beaten courtyard that’s been repurposed into what seems to be a training ground.

“I’m not sure if I should be concerned that no one’s here to greet us or elated that we’re left to our own devices,” Jaskier says lamely. He glances around at the training equipment as they pass it, following Geralt to a squat, stone building that looks newer than the stonework around it.

“You’ll see,” Geralt says simply. They enter the building and are greeted by three horses meandering in wide stalls. Geralt leads Roach into an empty one and closes it, whispering a promise to come back and unload her soon. Jaskier pets her soft nose and whispers a  _ thank you _ to her for her hard work, then follows Geralt as the Witcher tugs him along. 

They pass through the training ground again, winding through beaten straw dummies and a row of tall pillories arranged like soldiers in formation. A rack of dull swords sits under an awning to a hot, billowing forge, and a long shooting range follows one inner wall to the keep, a set of wooden targets sitting at the end, crossbow bolts littering their pocked faces. He follows Geralt up bleached stone steps to a set of huge wooden doors, but instead of pushing them open, Geralt opens a smaller door set inside them, holding it open for Jaskier to pass through. He does, sighing as warm air hits him as he trots inside, relishing for only a moment the relief being out of the cold brings him until his eyes adjust and he has to stop himself from gasping.

The hall he finds himself in his huge, stretching far above his head and further inside than he can readily see. The floors are a marbled red and white, spiked through with dykes of black and gold. The walls are tiled red, intricate patterns weaving in and out of each other as the colors shift, flowers and battle scenes unfolding in the gentle curve of stone and mortar. As they walk further in, Jaskier has to crane his neck to fully appreciate the flaking, fading frescos painted across the walls, monsters and brave witchers slaying them tumbling across their faces in detail. There’s signs of life here, too, signs of people living here crowding against the painted walls and around the great big hearth set into the back wall, tables pushed together laden with plates and cutlery and bookshelves populating another large corner of the hall, overfull with books and scrolls. 

And then they round an area that looks like it’s used to mend armor and weapons, steel and silver and leather tools ordered neatly on tables and three grindstones set out in an even line, the hearth properly coming into view along with three unfamiliar shadows sitting in front of it. Geralt keeps pace with him, never leaving his side, but it’s obvious by the way he relaxes that he knows these three men.

These three men also know him, and before Jaskier can react, two of them are mowing him down while the third meanders over slowly, his old, weathered face put-upon.

“Geralt!” one of the men shouts. He’s younger looking, with dark brown hair hanging in his eyes in long unkempt whisps and three nasty scars crawling up one side of his face, marring his lip into a permanent snarl. But he’s smiling, and he thumps Geralt on the back as they embrace. He looks Geralt up and down, and it’s then that Jaskier sees the yellow of his eyes, the thin slits of his pupils. 

“Look at you!” the man — the  _ Witcher  _ — says. “And Lambert said you wouldn’t come this time.”

“Not with how mopey he was last time,” the second man says. His eyes are yellow, too, but more piercing, more guarded. “He was insufferable. I hope you dislodged that stick up your ass.”

Jaskier can’t stop the bubble of laughter from escaping him. Four pairs of golden eyes flick to him, and  _ gods,  _ the old man is a Witcher too?!

“No, he just brought him with him,” he quips. Then he drops into a bow, smiling wide. “Master Jaskier Pankratz, bard, poet, and stick up Geralt’s ass.”

“Ha!” the second Witcher laughs. He smacks Geralt, who’s looking more and more regretful for bringing Jaskier here. “Pretty boy, why didn’t you bring him before? This winter is going to be so much better with him here!”

“Did you just call him  _ pretty boy?” _ Jaskier says, trying valiantly not to laugh.

“Don’t,” Geralt sighs.

“Oh, I won’t,” the second Witcher says, but his eyebrow wiggle says he’s talking about something else entirely and wow, when did  _ that _ happen? “But if you don’t, I will.”

“ _ Lambert,” _ Geralt hisses, and oh, that’s his angry voice.

The second Witcher — Lambert — raises his hands. “Just sayin’.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” the first Witcher mumbles, low with something close to anger, too. But then his yellow eyes are on Jaskier, and he’s smiling, soft and kind, and holds out his hand. “I’m Eskel. Nice to finally meet you, Jaskier.”

“Finally?” Jaskier says, taking his hand in a firm shake. He glances at Geralt, who looks more and more like he really doesn’t want to be here. “He talked about me?”

“Cried about you, more like,” Lambert says, almost sing-song. “All winter last year.  _ I miss him, the winters aren’t the same without him,  _ blah blah blah.”

Geralt punches him in the gut, hard, and suddenly they’re on each other, wrestling with a ferocity only Witchers can muster. Geralt gets Lambert tackled to the marble floor but only gets one punch in, his fist wound back and Lambert’s startled yelp bouncing through the vaulted ceilings before the fourth Witcher, the older, more stern-looking one, clears his throat.

Instantly, Geralt is off Lambert and on his feet, and Lambert, despite a bloody, likely broken nose, is on his feet as well. Eskel looks infinitely amused as his brother desperately tries to staunch the flow of blood with his sleeve, and Geralt, while looking increasingly murderous, is smiling just a little.

“Like boys all over again,” the old Witcher says at length. He shakes his head, glaring particularly hard at Geralt, but it’s fond and without reproach. “You know better than to give into his prodding.”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder. “He knows better than to prod me.”

“Bet he wants to prod someone else,” Lambert mumbles. Eskel slaps him on the back of his skull and Lambert groans. Jaskier just laughs, suddenly, slapping a hand over his mouth while Geralt looks over at him with a smile on his lips.

The old Witcher valiantly ignores it and shakes Jaskier’s offered hand. “Vesemir,” he says. “Witcher and keeper of these three idiots.”

“A pleasure,” Jaskier says. Vesemir’s hand is weathered and rough, and his hair is a smokey grey, a natural mirror to Geralt’s unnatural white. “Is it just the four of you, usually?”

Vesemir’s smile is sad. “We’re the only wolves left, Master bard. I’m afraid you’re looking at the last of the School of the Wolf.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He kicks himself, biting his lip and suddenly feeling very small. He’d thought, with the size of the keep and the size of the world, that maybe —

“It’s alright,” Vesemir says, without heat. He’s kind, and smiles something small. He gestures around at the keep at large, at the young Witchers standing around him, and finally at Jaskier himself. “You’re welcome here. There won’t be much to do once the snow sets in, so there will be work for a week or so. I hope you’re stronger than you look.”

“He is,” Geralt says at the same time Jaskier says, “I am.” Jaskier feels his face heat, and Lambert guffaws while Eskel rolls his eyes.

Vesemir ignores them both. “Rest for today. The journey is long for a Witcher — I can’t imagine how tiring it must be for a human.”

Jaskier suddenly feels the ache in his legs and the cold biting at his fingers, and nods. “Thank you. I wouldn’t mind a nap, actually.”

Geralt touches his wrist. His brother’s gaze zero in on the movement, but Geralt doesn’t move away, so neither does Jaskier. “Come. I’ll show you and then bring up our things.”

Lambert gives a cat whistle as they walk further through the hall, followed by a smack and an  _ ow!  _ as Eskel hits him again. Jaskier snorts, trying very hard not to blush even though it’s quickly just him and Geralt, winding through wide stone halls and up a set of stairs that follow the curve of the wall they’re built into.

“Your brothers are charming,” Jaskier says quietly. He catches up to Geralt’s side, finding a small grin on his Witcher’s face.

“You get used to them,” he says. “Lambert especially. Only a couple years younger than me, but he acts like a child.”

“Like I said. Charming.”

Geralt snorts. He stops at a wooden door at the end of a long hall, pushing it open and waiting for Jaskier to lead. Jaskier finds himself in a wide room, a hearth glowing low with the embers of a dying fire next to a bed piled with blankets and furs. A set of iron doors glazed with foggy glass lead out to a stone balcony, locked and closed for now, woven red drapes tied back revealing a view of the valley Kaer Morhen sits guard over. The stone floor and walls are covered in rugs, trapping in the heat, and scattered across the desk and side tables are signs of someone living here: leather working tools, bath salts, a screen separating a portion of the room holding a wooden tub and bucket. A set of swords sit on hooks above the fireplace, and a familiar green cloak is draped across the chair at the desk.

“Ciri was here?” Jaskier asks quietly as he runs his fingers over the fine silk. Geralt hums, a warm shadow behind him.

“She’s with Yen right now, to wait out this winter,” he says. “Last year was a little brutal for her.”

Jaskier smiles, suddenly wicked. “Speaking of last winter —“

Geralt groans. “Jaskier —“

“Someone told me you  _ missed _ me!”

Geralt, his expression screwed up in embarrassment, doesn’t fight Jaskier as he wraps his arms around his ribs. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

Jaskier presses a kiss to the cold leather of his chestpiece. “It’s alright. I’ll keep your secret.”

Arms encircle him, bringing the folds of a thick cloak around them both, cocooning them in their shared warmth. Lips press to the crown of Jaskier’s hair and he hums, content for now even with the ache in his feet and exhaustion setting in his bones.

“Relax,” Geralt hums. His voice is felt more than heard, making Jaskier shiver. “I’ll go get our bags.”

He parts with another squeeze, leaving Jaskier to his own devices. So he feeds the fire, discovers a knob and spigot that feeds the tub, turning it and yelping when steaming hot water comes spurting from its mouth. He leaves it to fill, mystified, and opens drawers and cupboards, rifling through the wardrobe and the weapon case on the same wall as the bed. 

He discovers that this is, indeed, Geralt’s room, with a few sets of his clothes kept folded and clean in the drawers of the dresser and another set of armor in the wardrobe. The swords above the fireplace are silver and steel, still sharp and ready for use, and the desk is filled to the brim with dried herbs and plants, glass vials set aside with an oil-filled burner and ceramic crucible. There are signs of Ciri here, too, an ornate dagger on the mantle and clothes too small to fit even Jaskier, but he leaves them where he finds them.

Geralt finally emerges, overladen with saddlebags and dusty from brushing down Roach. His swords he sets beside the bed, and without a word he begins helping Jaskier unload their things, smiling a little at the filling bath and hot fire.

“There’s springs underneath the keep,” Geralt says, nodding to the hot water. He screws the spigot closed when the tub is nearly full, abandoning his work for now with a soft look.

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. The room is warm, making it easy to shed his layers. Geralt follows suit, stepping into the tub first and sinking down into the steaming water with a sigh. He holds his hand out to steady Jaskier as the bard follows him, and surprisingly, unlike all the other baths they’ve shared, the tub is big enough for both of them.

“I should’ve been coming to Kaer Morhen more often,” Jaskier says, stretching out as Geralt does the same. He leans back, the Witcher’s chest warm against his back, Geralt’s hands coming up to drip water over Jaskier’s hair. He hums a quiet assent, but doesn’t say anything else, so Jaskier doesn’t either, letting the hot water soak away the stinging aches in his muscles.

They stay like that for a long time, longer than the water should have been able to stay hot. Jaskier suspects  _ igni _ , but his eyelids are too heavy, so he doesn’t bother trying to catch Geralt mid-cast. Geralt’s rough hands begin to massage the warmth back into his hands, his calluses hard but welcome against the knobs of his knuckles and wrists. He works up one arm and then the other, then quietly prods Jaskier’s side for him to turn around, which he obeys. Geralt’s golden eyes are soft, his hands softer as he works the knots out of the bottoms of Jaskier’s feet, working in contented silence. Jaskier sinks into the water, feeling sleepy, letting the minutes pass by without comment.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there for, and quite honestly, he doesn’t care. They’ve nowhere to go and nothing to do, and Geralt’s gentle ministrations are enough to nearly put him to sleep. The Witcher lifts him up out of the water and dries him off before he can, setting him in the nest of blankets on the bed with an apologetic kiss to his temple as his bath-warm skin begins to cool. He reaches out and Geralt follows him, searching for his hands, sighing deep and long when they wrap around his sides.

It comes to him, then, in the quiet of the room and the setting sun peaking through the closed balcony doors. Geralt is a heavy, warm weight against him, his skin bath-soft. Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s neck and mumbles, but even with his Witcher hearing, he still feels Geralt jerk back with a startled grunt.

“What did you say?” he says, not unkindly, but with an edge of desperation that belies the molasses-slow beat of his heart.

Jaskier bites his lip. He meets yellow eyes and tries not to let the irrational fear of such a confession drive him to silence again.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “For a long time, I have.”

Geralt blinks. And then, like that morning on a log with an empty basket and jar of honey between them, he leans forward and kisses him softly. Jaskier revels in it, in the words he can’t say and the meaning behind what’s unsaid. He won’t force it, not now and not ever, not when Geralt’s response is clearer than if he’d screamed it to the heavens.

No. He simply basks in the soft touch of sword-worn hands down his sides and chapped lips against his collarbone. Geralt’s hair slips in soft damp strands through his fingers and the Witcher sighs in pleasure instead of pain, finding comfort instead of pain, seeking warmth in Jaskier’s hands instead of a kind needle and thread through his skin. He gives in, tracing scars old and new, breathing in deep and drinking in his fill of a man that has long denied himself the pleasure of a body freely given without pretense or restraint.

Jaskier would continue to give it, continue to indulge a man more sensitive than he allows himself to be perceived. He eases sharp senses and tense muscles, finds the oil that smells of vanilla and chamomile and lets it permeate the room alongside the hot fire and clean skin. The body underneath his eases, and for the first time it’s done without the promise of food or coin or a kind hand to patch him back together. It’s done out of affection, of wanting to see body and mind cared for without the dangling of a greater motive behind it.

Jaskier loves, and Geralt loves back, and for once in their long relationship together, they are finally, finally at peace. 


	7. +2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im honestly quite bad at writing smut so i apologize if this isnt up to par. but i felt like the fic needed a bit of this after everything, so here you are, a gift from me to you! let me know what you think!

It doesn’t have to go anywhere. He’s not expecting it to, the evening stretching long and the Witcher pressed against him warm and sated from the bath. He’s happy enough to lie here, the fire snapping quietly, their breaths slow, the beat of a slower heart thumping against his back a bone-deep reassurance.

And then they shift, as if their bodies know them better, Geralt’s hips canting forward and the arm slung across Jaskier’s hips tightening. Jaskier feels himself respond without really thinking about it, pressing back, letting his body respond to the roll of Geralt’s seeking the pleasant dry friction of skin against skin.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes in quiet surprise. Geralt makes a sound, a rumbling in his chest Jaskier has never heard or felt before, a sound that brings an amused, delighted smile to his lips

“You’re  _ purring,” _ Jaskier says, a little awed. “Geralt, darling, have you been able to do that the whole time?”

The Witcher presses a soft, reverent kiss to the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Could do a lot of things the whole time.”

The unspoken regret of not doing  _ this _ sooner hangs heavy in the air for a moment. All of this, not just the slow, meandering path to what will likely be a wondrous night of finally bedding his Witcher. Jaskier lets it hang there, lets the sorrow play itself out while Geralt presses kiss after kiss down his spine, wet and heavy, his stubble scratching pleasantly and his breath slow and warm.

Geralt’s hands curl around Jaskier’s waist, holding him in place as he shifts closer, their bodies coming together in a press of skin that leaves them both gasping. Geralt’s hard against the curve of Jaskier’s lower back, hot and damp and trying desperately not to go too fast. They have all the time in the world, now, and with a gentle squeeze on Geralt’s wrist, Jaskier rolls his hips back.

Geralt’s breath stutters against his ear, his fingers tightening and then loosening around Jaskier’s waist. “Slow,” he says, almost painfully, even as his hips give an answering thrust, shallow and without much friction to ease the need. “Please, I want to go slow. I —“

Jaskier brings one of his hands up and kisses his rough knuckles. “I know. It’s okay. I’m not eighteen anymore, I think I can handle going slow.”

He understands why. In the press of lips against his shoulder and the straining erection going ignored behind him, he understands. Geralt has a long time to live, and while it took them awhile to get here, he wants to prove that this isn’t just a quick fuck to sate a need (although Jaskier knows, and honestly wouldn’t mind if they did). 

For once in his long life, Geralt wants to take his own pleasure. It’s the honey all over again, except sweeter, slower, a taste they can both enjoy while slaking their own desires in different ways. Jaskier very desperately wants to go boneless and let his Witcher take and take and take — but he knows Geralt wants to receive, too, like the candy, the care, the gentle ease of a needle through torn skin.

So he turns, Geralt’s hands sliding up his back as he does, those golden eyes finally coming into view after hours of not seeing them. His pupils are nearly round in the dark warm glow of the room, the vertical points almost nonexistent. Those eyes are soft, unafraid in showing the shy, gentle affection Geralt usually hides under his armor and swords. Jaskier frames Geralt’s face between his palms and brings him down to kiss him, his nose, his brow, his cheeks and eyelids — everywhere he can reach and then some, wrapping his arms tightly around his Witcher so he can’t even think of escaping.

Geralt settles against his chest with a contented hum. Their bodies slot together like a worn, old buckle, safe in the assumption that this is the place they will always return to. But the urgency is still there, burning low in Jaskier’s stomach and climbing higher, the press of their hard cocks between their bodies too much to just ignore. 

Jaskier moves first, wiggling under Geralt’s weight to get him to sit up on his elbows. Geralt complies enough to release him just a little, his mouth beginning a hot trail of wet kisses up the column of his neck. Jaskier breathes a laugh as his stubble tickles him, then is soothed by a warm tongue, Geralt’s mouth eliciting a slight shiver through his limbs. Jaskier returns the favour with the slide of his hands down Geralt’s sides, taking in the wide expanse of his ribcage, over the bumps and knots of scars too old to remember their origins. He massages some of them, the ones he knows that hurt sometimes when the Witcher moves too much, easing away tense muscles as Geralt groans above him and dips his head, his mouth stuttering on a kiss he’d been sucking into Jaskier’s collarbone. 

Jaskier’s knees fall open and Geralt slides between them. He lets his hands slide down to the small of Geralt’s back, applies the lightest of pressure to urge him forward, urges him to  _ move  _ — and then he does, the dry shift of their hips coming together and cocks bumping against one another causing them both to suck in a sharp breath.

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans, low and throaty and oh, he needs to say his name just like that forever. “Jaskier —“

There’s a question in how he says Jaskier’s name, in the raw need edging his rough voice. Jaskier squeezes his arms around him, pressing soft kisses to Geralt’s jaw, under his chin, over his shoulder. Geralt revels in it, the slow hunch of his hips driving Jaskier a little mad. He can feel the ripple of muscles underneath Geralt’s skin as he moves, can feel the hard-fought restraint in keeping himself pliant between Jaskier’s hands. Geralt breathes deeply and with purpose, like a meditation, pressing his face into Jaskier’s neck and whining when Jaskier doesn’t immediately answer him.

“Just like this, darling,” Jaskier manages. It’s hot under the blankets, suddenly, so he kicks them off, revealing miles of beautiful pale skin perched between his knees, all his for the taking. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s dark chest hair as the Witcher leans back enough to look at him, sitting quite prettily on his haunches, backlit by the fire, eyes glittering. “Just like this.”

Geralt nods. He slides back down, between Jaskier’s knees, his hands, wrapping the bard in his arms as he starts a hot trail of kisses down his chest. Jaskier curls his fingers in Geralt’s hair and doesn’t bite back the gasps and sighs that mouth tears from him, basking in the attention as Geralt moves lower, and lower, and lower.

His tongue licks a hot line up the inside of Jaskier's thigh, making Jaskier groan and Geralt shudder out a sigh in return. He’s looking up at Jaskier without hesitation, without embarrassment, something hot and wanting in those eyes that’s far beyond what Jaskier has seen there before. It makes him ache, and with soft bites and licks, Geralt soothes it away just as quickly as he caused it.

Even with his desire quite eagerly on display, Geralt avoids moving too quickly. He kisses and nips at the soft skin between Jaskier’s legs, smiling when the bard impatiently arcs his hips and ignores him. He sits up, propping Jaskier’s knees over his shoulders, turning his head to kiss further around one thigh, his hip, curling Jaskier in on himself as he leans forward. Their hips slot together, and even though he’s older than when they first met, Jaskier is still quite bendy — he takes Geralt’s weight above him easily, only slightly embarrassed at the position he’s in because he can feel the hot line of Geralt’s erection down the cleft of his ass.

Their lips finally come together after long minutes spent roaming. Geralt melts, a satisfied sigh leaving him, and Jaskier musters the strength to roll them over. The Witcher lies obediently on his back, stretching out along with Jaskier, but his hands stay curled about his hips, always a warm point of contact that he seems reluctant to relinquish. 

Jaskier smiles, pecking him on the lip. “You’re quite the romantic, you know.”

Geralt doesn’t bother hiding his answering grin. It’s small, like all the others, but there’s a hint of crooked teeth that makes Jaskier’s knees weak.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he answers lowly. He turns his head and kisses Jaskier’s jaw, venturing as far down as he can reach while still staying reclined. “I have a lot of things I’d like to do.”

_ That _ sets Jaskier wiggling. He reaches for his bag left leaning against the bed, hushing Geralt when he whines at the loss of his body above him. He digs around until he finds what he’s looking for, then presses the thin bottle into Geralt’s hand, only a little abashed that he could find it so quickly.

“Well, darling,” Jaskier purrs, and oh, the  _ look _ on Geralt’s face — “I’ve got some things in mind as well. Why don’t you indulge me?”

Geralt’s pupils go completely round. “Yes,” he breathes. His fingers close around the bottle while his other hand pulls Jaskier completely on top of him with a strength that leaves Jaskier panting.

Like this, he’s completely open for Jaskier to explore — so he does while Geralt fights with the cork of the bottle. He settles down gingerly on Geralt’s hips and skates his hands up his sides, pressing into tender places that make Geralt’s dark eyes flutter. He leans down and returns the kisses his Witcher had given to him, leaving a wet trail from his navel up to the gentle, slow beat of his heart underneath his sternum. He kisses him several times there, each kiss longer than the last, moving further up and kissing the body-warm medallion that never comes off. He feels Geralt shiver underneath him when he does, and then a finger tips his chin up and guides him back to chapped lips. 

“You have to know,” Geralt says quietly. His voice is tight like the kiss had wounded him, like somehow Jaskier’s touch hurts. Jaskier cradles his face, their bodies chest to chest, Geralt’s hands coming round to his waist again, slotting perfectly into place.

“I do know,” Jaskier says, equally quiet. He kisses Geralt, slow and languid, letting him take his fill for a long time. Geralt begins to melt again, and in a stroke of urgency, he curls his fingers behind Jaskier’s knee and brings his thigh around, pressing their erections together that startles a gasp from them both.

It’s quick after that, at least for a few minutes, as Jaskier sits up and Geralt coats his fingers in the oil. It smells like olives and cloves, an oil usually reserved for tense muscles and acute pain after Geralt returns from a hunt. But the oil is safe, and the cloves will help with the pain — and the smell doesn’t seem to bother Geralt, his face pinched in concentration instead of discomfort. If anything, the familiarity is relaxing, the scent bringing back memories of nights spent caring for Geralt and making his pain go away. 

Jaskier perches on Geralt’s hips, his knees on either side of his ribs as he holds himself up. He smiles when Geralt flicks an unsure look at him, leaning down enough to kiss him when Geralt doesn’t immediately move.

“I’ll tell you if it hurts,” he says. He kisses the corner of Geralt’s mouth then sits back up, keeping a hand steady on his chest, his fingers brushing the edge of the medallion. He moves his palm up and covers it, and the look Geralt gives him, one filled with pain and regret and so much love — it eases the initial burn as a finger pushes inside him, slick and slow.

Jaskier breathes deeply, purposefully. Geralt is quick to add a second to begin massaging him, the oil softening the skin of his coarse fingers. The sensation of having Geralt inside him, however small, is thrilling, and Jaskier can’t stop the sounds from escaping him as Geralt begins to thrust his fingers in a little harder, a little deeper, after a few minutes of gentle pushing.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. Geralt hums underneath him, a gentle  _ purr _ that doesn’t stop even when he doesn’t make a sound. Jaskier can feel it between his thighs, under his palm — he smiles. “You really have quite an —  _ ah!  _ — technique.”

“You aren’t so hard to read,” Geralt says, low. His voice is deeper, rougher, as if he went and swallowed rock chips before coming here. “You’re a hedonist, and I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Jaskier slaps his other hand against Geralt’s chest when the Witcher adds a third finger and at the same time he presses the pad of his thumb against the soft skin of his perineum, directly behind his balls. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through him that sets every nerve and bone alight, his cock blurting precum as Geralt does it again, and then a third time.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, shaky. He rocks back on Geralt’s hand, relishing in the stretch but finding he wants something a little larger, a little deeper. “I am quite happy enough riding your fingers, but —“

As if to discover yet another method of shutting him up, Geralt curls his fingers forward, and all semblance of possibly lasting the night without spilling himself like a teenager vanishes like a wisp of smoke. Jaskier whimpers, and Geralt grins a predatory grin, and oh, this is going to be  _ fast. _

“You were saying?” Geralt teases. 

Jaskier pinches his side. “Really, Geralt. I learn more about your sense of humor with your fingers up my ass than I do in nearly two decades of travelling with you.”

The Witcher hums. He slides his fingers out, a loss Jaskier feels rather acutely, then wraps his arms around him, bringing him back down so their bodies are flush together again.

“I could use something else,” Geralt says, finally, sounding suspiciously like he’s grinning at his own joke.

Jaskier sits up enough to glare. “You’re how old? Several millennia? Dick jokes are beneath you.”

“My dick is beneath you.”

“ _ Geralt.” _

Geralt chuckles. And then he turns them both on their sides, hitching Jaskier’s thigh over his hip and cradling Jaskier close with broad hands across his back and waist. The head of his cock brushes along the cleft of Jaskier’s ass, a purposeful motion, and in an instant Jaskier reaches back to take it in his palm.

His hand is dry, but Geralt’s cock is  _ not, _ somehow slicked with oil when Jaskier hadn’t been paying attention. Geralt bites out a groan when he angles his hips and presses down, urging the Witcher to move. He does, however slowly, their coupling achieved in bit-off gasps and a long, satisfied sigh when Geralt finally bottoms out.

Jaskier doesn’t have words for how long he’s waited for this. Since the mountain, for sure, but for far longer he’s certain. Since he saw this Witcher forfeit his life to a group of sad, starving elves probably, yet he didn’t know how far and how deep that love would go. He hadn’t yet seen the compassion Geralt is capable of, of the generosity and kindness someone denied such things can muster. He feels it, right here, in the caress of Geralt’s palm as he slides a hand under the thigh thrown over his hip and the warm kiss pressed to his brow. Geralt draws their bodies closer, sinking in deeper, an embrace not wholly conducive to fucking but one he wants to be in all the same because of how close they are, how much of their skin is touching.

He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders the best he can and kisses him back, dry and wet in turns, letting Geralt move with the gentle undulation of a man not in a hurry to get anywhere at all. Jaskier feels fuller than he’s ever been, the sparking heat growing in his gut a pleasant tingle as Geralt’s cockhead brushes his prostate firmly with each upstroke. He’s far from being a virgin — like, almost twenty-five years too far — but this, with Geralt —

A broken groan rumbles out of Geralt. His nails dig into Jaskier’s skin, ten points of blunt, barely-there pain, dragging him impossibly closer as their skin starts to stick and catch with sweat. Geralt rolls more on top of him, hitching Jaskier’s leg higher, slipping inside him even deeper. Jaskier swallows a moan, suddenly realizing he’s in an empty keep with three other Witchers that can probably hear him  _ breathe. _

“The one time you’re quiet,” Geralt grunts. He rocks his hips back, the thick weight of his cock nearly sliding all the way out, dragging Jaskier’s breath with it. He stills, keeping Jaskier gasping, the both of them shaking with the effort not to move. 

“Your brothers—“

Geralt sinks back inside him in one long, deep movement, pushing a moan out from underneath Jaskier’s ribs. He feels Geralt smile against the damp skin of his neck, panting just a bit, his breath hot.

“I don’t care,” Geralt growls. He presses Jaskier into the bed, his hips starting to move at a quicker pace, but slow enough to still sink deep. He nips a kiss on Jaskier’s jaw. “Let them hear.”

Jaskier clenches down on the weight inside him, smiling at the punched-out moan it drags from Geralt. “I could say the same for you, darling.”

A laugh shakes the warm body covering his, and just like that, the unknown tension blanketing them dissipates. Suddenly, he recalls all the times he’s seen this body bare to him — all its curves and dips, the map of scars he’s learned over decades, many tended to by his own hands. The movements are new, the slick stretch of the cock inside him, the grind of Geralt’s stomach against his erection, the gentle mouth trailing kisses down his neck and over his shoulder — it’s all strange. He’s allowed to touch, allowed to fix what the world has done to his Witcher, but this is —

His eyes flutter closed and his body responds with a roll of his hips as Geralt presses deeper. He spreads his thighs wider, trying to breathe around the weight inside him that seems to reach all the way to the back of his throat. Where once they’d been rocking against each other, slow and with a timid rhythm that took them nowhere, now they move together, a long, undulating tempo that starts at their joining and ends in Jaskier’s fingertips. 

Geralt hooks one of Jaskier’s knees on his shoulder, bending him nearly in half easily but without pain. The angle changes and Jaskier gasps, feeling quite stretched as the pace speeds up. Geralt’s medallion swings down, knocked loose from where it’d been pressed between his chest and the back of Jaskier’s thigh, resting against his sternum as a warm weight. Jaskier feels his heart swell, something indescribable flooding up his throat and welling at the corners of his eyes, and Geralt notices, of course he does, even as he seeks his desire in a climbing crescendo of movement and sound. His soft gaze finds Jaskier’s, then flicks down to the medallion, and in an instant their pace turns from frantic to a bone-deep stretch that leaves them both groaning.

The pressure mounts, suddenly, much quicker than he anticipated and much too early. Geralt’s cock slips and pulls at his rim, rubbing him in all the right places, his hands a rough scrape of familiarity across his back and sides and hips. It builds behind his balls in a swift, hot pressure, so he tugs Geralt closer, bringing their foreheads together, their breaths mingling as they pant. 

“‘M real close, Geralt,” Jaskier manages to say. He laughs at himself, but it’s far from depreciating. “Darling, I’m starting to understand why every sorceress you come across wants to bed you.”

Geralt smiles into the kiss he licks into Jaskier’s mouth. “You know what they say about a Witcher’s stamina.”

He’s breathless, probably close to coming himself, but he’s most definitely  _ laughing.  _

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I swear to the gods if you stop for even a moment —“

Geralt purrs. Jaskier should’ve known he wouldn’t stop, not unless he’d say something — and he’s not saying much right now as Geralt searches for their twin high. He can suddenly feel every place their bodies touch, the weight of the medallion heavy against his chest, the brush of Geralt’s hair on his cheeks as it comes down over his shoulders. Their foreheads touch again and Jaskier can’t breathe the pleasure is so tight and hot inside him, coiling and coiling, taut to the slightest of pressure. Geralt shoves against it, a crash of waves against well-beaten rocks, and before Jaskier can catch himself, before he can snatch his limbs away from sinking into the undertow —

Their bellies are suddenly slick with warmth and Jaskier groans, deep and loud, the sound bouncing against the high ceiling of their room. His orgasm rocks through him from the curl of his toes to the flutter of his eyelashes, leaving him full and empty and tense and sated. His body relaxes, and Geralt does with him, but only just.

Jaskier feels himself smile as he turns his face against Geralt’s cheek. “You really weren’t kidding.”

Geralt sighs, edged with dry amusement — but also with a pain that isn’t entirely physical. “I can pull out.”

The cock inside him is still quite hard, and his own body is loose in the limbs and his core. Geralt’s body hair rubs against his own flagging erection in a way that’s on the wrong side of good, but he shakes his head, dislodging sweaty strands of hair that's been stuck to his forehead. 

“Keep going,” Jaskier says. He squeezes his thighs around Geralt’s hips, digging his heels into the small of his back. Geralt’s body moves, urged forward into a shallow thrust, a deep sigh whistling through his nose.

“If it gets to be too much,” Geralt says, strained. His hips keep moving, but his body is tense. Jaskier smoothes his hands over his cheeks, down his neck and shoulders, through his sweat-damp chest hair. He palms the medallion, clasping his fingers around it, and Geralt’s gaze darkens.

He wraps his arms around Jaskier and  _ moves, _ a terrible pace that makes Jaskier shout and throw a hand above him so he’s not rutted up the bed. Geralt growls, deep and low in his chest, their skin slapping together and the mess between their stomachs getting tacky with sweat. Jaskier tries not to whimper but he can’t help it — the overstimulation is a sweet pain. He squeezes his fingers around the medallion and tugs, urging Geralt on, mumbling to “keep going, keep  _ going,  _ darling!” but he isn’t sure the words come out right.

Geralt wasn’t lying — his stamina is substantial. Jaskier goes boneless, his limbs heavy with the pulse of pleasure-pain shooting like bolts of chaos through every fiber of his body. The only strength he has is to hold on, their gasps and moans blending into each other, Geralt’s hands and eyes and cock a balm to the weak numbness tingling at the edges of his vision. 

The heavy oak headboard cracks against the wall and with it comes a breathless groan from the shuddering Witcher above him. Warmth floods inside him, both from Geralt’s release and the deep satisfaction of sating him. He presses their lips together in a messy kiss, his cock still pulsing, and Jaskier basks in it all. He’s hot and sweaty and they both need another bath, but Geralt sinking all his weight against him is welcome, and even though his limbs ache, he wraps himself around Geralt and squeezes.

Geralt nuzzles under the hinge of his jaw, breathing deeply, his stubble rubbing against his sweaty skin pleasantly. Jaskier lets him, suddenly feeling the burn in his lungs from panting and the deep, warm ache inside him. His Witcher burrows further, trapping the hand Jaskier has around the medallion between them.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says after a while. They’ve turned more on their sides, their legs tangled together under a thin blanket Jaskier tugged over them. Jaskier hums, opening his eyes, meeting warm yellow so close he nearly goes cross-eyed.

“Shut me up for once,” Jaskier says. He grins at Geralt’s exasperated sigh. “Thank you, darling.”

Geralt hums, his expression softening. “I’d like to do it again.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Maybe not now, darling. You may have the stamina of a racehorse, but I’m not that young anymore.”

Geralt nips at his nose. “Not  _ now. _ You know what I meant, you insufferable fool.”

“I did,” Jaskier sighs. He kisses Geralt, breathing out deeply as the Witcher licks into his mouth, gentle and slow. They part with a smack that’s somehow more obscene than the sounds of their lovemaking earlier. “But I know what you meant. I do, too. For as long as you’ll have me.”

The medallion presses between them as Geralt leans close. Their noses brush, Geralt’s fingers coming up to tip his chin back for a deeper kiss. He keeps him like that for a while, a growing interest burning low in Jaskier’s gut answered by a hot, hard line pressing against his thigh. But Geralt ignores it, so Jaskier does as well, simply letting the minutes pass in easy affection.

And then Geralt pulls back, a contemplative wrinkle between his brows. He lays back, allowing Jaskier to lean over him propped on his elbow, his golden eyes peering up at Jaskier, the pupils thin pointed ovals in the growing dark of the room.

“What’s the matter?” Jaskier asks quietly. He presses his palm over Geralt’s sternum, feeling the slow, even beat of his heart. Geralt covers his hand with his own and squeezes, his contemplation melting away into something softer.

“I love you,” he says, low and rough and monotone just like he says everything. But there’s emotion there, banked and shoved down as if in waiting for rejection. Geralt won’t meet his eyes, his stare thrown somewhere over Jaskier’s shoulder, avoiding his gaze even when Jaskier tips his head into his line of sight with a smile.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says slowly. Geralt blinks and obediently looks at him, looking vaguely like he wants to throw up.

“You know how I feel,” Jaskier continues. He slides the hand he had on Geralt’s chest up to his cheek, cupping it gently. “You don’t have to be afraid of showing your feelings. They’re quite obvious.”

“I’m not afraid,” Geralt says, but he’s not angry. “I know how you feel, and that doesn’t scare me, but Jaskier —“

He stops. The gentle fingers that were carding through the hair at the back of Jaskier’s head move away, taking Jaskier’s hand on his cheek and moving it to the chain around his neck. The metal is warm, and in a slow movement, he takes up the medallion again, its embossed face catching the light of the fire in a flash of silver.

“I need to know that you love all of me,” Geralt whispers. It rumbles low in his chest, quiet and afraid. He blinks and his pupils are paper thin again, viper’s eyes, predator’s eyes. Jaskier is suddenly hyper aware of the raw power Geralt contains, of what this body underneath his is capable of doing. Of killing. Of  _ destroying. _

Jaskier kisses his medallion. He was afraid, once, a long time ago. When they’d first met and the novelty of meeting a Witcher hadn’t worn off. It still hasn’t, sometimes, like now, but for different reasons.

“I’m not scared,” he says. He kisses the medallion again, then lays it gently on Geralt’s chest, meeting Geralt’s startled stare. “And I know what I’m getting into. I travelled with you for a long time. I noticed some things, sweetheart.”

“I might die,” Geralt tries.

“And I most definitely will,” Jaskier counters easily. He raises a brow. “Are  _ you _ prepared for that?”

“Yes,” Geralt says without hesitation. “I still love you. I always will.”

Jaskier smooches him. “Then believe me when I say I do too.” And then, quieter, “I’m not going anywhere. We may drift apart — it’s in our nature, and your Path must be walked — but I know where my heart is.”

He sets his hand back on Geralt’s chest. Over his heart, and over the medallion. 

Geralt smiles at him. It’s small like all the others, crooked and with a warmth normally kept carefully hidden away. Jaskier smiles back, then leans down, taking dry lips between his own in a kiss that lasts a long while.


	8. +3 (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by popular demand, i've added an epilogue. i tried to add some things people wanted, but i couldn't add everything, so i apologize. i hope you enjoy it though! let me know what you think and thank you for supporting me!

He wakes to the sound of swords clanging against each other and a warm body wrapped around his own.

By itself, this is not entirely unsettling. He’s woken during a fight before, startled awake when soldiers or bandits come barrelling through their camp; or a dragon or wraith or some other such creature comes ambling through, drawn to the smells and sounds of two men and a horse sleeping somewhere they shouldn’t. Geralt, more often than not, is the one doing the sword fighting while Jaskier tries valiantly not to panic at the (very imminent, very terrifying) image of himself dying while wearing only his chemise and smallclothes.

Small mercies, then, that he wakes up in a comfortable bed in a warm room with the sun streaming in through a slit in the drawn curtains. A much bigger mercy is Geralt breathing quietly behind him, his face mashed into the nape of Jaskier’s neck, their legs tangled together and the Witcher’s slow heartbeat pressed against his back.

Jaskier tries very hard not to wiggle, but he’s full of energy by nature, and having Geralt in bed with him is still a novelty. Travelling to Kaer Morhen didn’t count, and neither did bedrolls around a fire. They’ve shared a bed before — many times — but now he was allowed to touch, and kiss, and do all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable things to this Witcher that is  _ his _ and moans so  _ sweetly _ when he —

“I can hear you thinking, Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice is deep and rough with sleep. Jaskier hums a happy sound and brings one of the Witcher’s hands up from where it’d been sitting on his stomach, kissing his knuckles one at a time.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says. “ _ You _ try waking up next to your life-long romantic interest after a rather pleasurable night of being pampered and fucked without being a little sentimental.”

Geralt huffs, but his smile is pressed into Jaskier’s shoulder. “Beat you to it.”

Jaskier gasps and turns to glare. “Don’t talk about Yennefer while in bed with me!”

“Didn’t mean her,” Geralt says. He bites Jaskier’s shoulder gently, nothing more than a nip, then soothes the pain away with a soft kiss. 

“She’s quite a lovely lady, I’ll give you that,” Jaskier says, softer. His heart pangs even as he knows the answer before he speaks. “You can still love her, you know.”

Geralt finally opens his eyes. They’re warm and lidded, heavy with a kind of sleepiness that comes from being safe after a long time of not being so. His pupils are thin, but not hard or predatory — simply a reaction to the light in the room, much more sensitive to it than Jaskier’s own, and he hides his face away between Jaskier’s shoulder blades to block it all out.

“I do,” Geralt says at length. “Love her. Differently than I did before, and differently than I do you. We had our time, but we don’t fit together.”

Jaskier turns around in the circle of his arms to properly look at him. “I’m sorry. I won’t tease.”

The seriousness of his tone makes Geralt smile, however small. “It’s fine. She’s drawn to things I can’t give her. She deserves better.”

“Well,” Jaskier says. “Not to sing my own accolades, but I am a Master Bard, Geralt.”

Geralt’s nose wrinkles. “I can still kick you out of bed.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t test me.”

“I could sing. Oh, how about a naughty rendition of  _ Toss a Coin?  _ I heard one while travelling through Skellige — I won’t tell you why I was there, only that I was terribly lonely without you, dear, and you’d gone on this insane hunt for a  _ giant _ that had already killed dozens of townsfolk and you were just going to do it alone, you fool, why didn’t you try and find me? I’ll have you know that, as a travelling companion —“

_ “Jaskier.” _

Geralt is barely containing a laugh, his arms shaking and his expression pulled into a breathless smile. Jaskier mirrors it, turning fully in the circle of his embrace and cupping his jaw in his hands. His Witcher is pliant between them, golden gaze peering up at him as he settles down, sighing deep and relaxed.

“I love your laugh,” Jaskier says quietly. “You don’t do it often, but when you do, I think I fall a little more in love with you.”

Geralt dips his chin. He’s never taken compliments gracefully, and now is no different: he hides away, curling forward into Jaskier’s neck, their bodies shifting to accommodate each other in a sweet slide of sated skin. They’re still tacky from the night before, and they have to get up soon if the other Witchers are already up with the sun, but he’s quite content to lay here, Geralt safe in his arms, this bed, as the world spins them by.

Jaskier dozes for a little while as Geralt’s hands wander. His fingertips are gentle, tracing the line of Jaskier’s hip up to his ribs, around to his back, down the slope of his spine and back up again. He hasn’t many scars, not like Geralt, but he finds the few that he does have, blunt nails catching over them before a hard, searching press of knuckles soothes the ache away. There’s one above his kidney where a lucky Nilfgaardian stabbed him one lonely winter, and another tracking across his left bicep from a stray crossbow bolt — a third, a perfect crescent moon of puncture marks from a lesser vampire during one unlucky hunt, and a fourth just across his collarbone, a cut that was quick and clean and entirely by accident the day he’d found Ciri and Geralt wandering through the woods.

Geralt’s tender searching finds them all easily. He soothes over each one, dipping his head to kiss each one, a quiet  _ thank you _ for the compliment and for so much more. Jaskier has spent many nights tending to this Witcher’s wounds, however numerous they are — this is a mirror of those nights spent scared and wanting, an apology as well as gratitude.

“You do a good job of convincing me into a day of lying about,” Jaskier murmurs. He’s sleepy and pliant underneath Geralt’s hands, soaking in the attention as Geralt’s mouth wanders lower.

“There’s still things to do,” Geralt responds. “Chores to do, things to stock up on before the snows come in —“

His mouth, his traitorous, wicked mouth, sucks a kiss into the soft skin of Jaskier’s inner thigh. He’s completely below the covers now, his hands cradling Jaskier’s ribs between their broad expanse, and yet all of Jaskier’s attention is on that one point of hot, wet contact, his body shivering with anticipation, his breath caught under his frantically beating heart.

He curls his fingers through Geralt’s hair to urge him forward, but thankfully, he doesn’t need much convincing. His mouth closes over Jaskier’s prick in one deep, eager swallow and Jaskier groans, his back arching off the bed, his entire body going taunt as a lute string as Geralt bobs his head in a slow, easy rhythm.

Jaskier flings the blankets away after a few moments spent luxuriating in the hot, velvet heat of Geralt’s mouth, revealing yellow eyes staring up at him in unadulterated hunger. Geralt is a vision, his hair fraying out of its half braid and his lips spread around the width of him as he gulps him down. His hands slide down Jaskier’s damp skin, trailing across his hips and stomach, wrapping around his thighs to push them further apart to give himself room. Jaskier watches as Geralt bobs along the length of his cock easily, breathing deep through his nose, a groan rumbling through him when Jaskier’s hips rise to meet him.

He can’t stop himself. He cradles the back of Geralt’s head, encouraging him to move as he tries not to buck or squirm despite the heady, slick constriction of the mouth enveloping him. Geralt moves slowly, deliberately, his tongue a rough scrape along the underside of his cock on each downstroke and a sweet tease at the head with each pull upwards. He traces the thick vein down the underside with the point of his tongue and kisses the flushed, leaking tip after pulling off to breathe, lapping up an embarrasing amount of precome and swallowing without hesitation. Jaskier nearly comes right there, but then Geralt is swallowing him down again, humming his appreciation, the slightest hint of teeth grazing his oversensitive shaft.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes tightly. The muscles in his stomach begin to tighten, pressure building behind his balls, the unmistakable urge coming to him rather quickly. Geralt flicks his gaze up to him, raising a brow as if to say  _ yes? I’m busy _ and ignores him, bobbing on, his hands pressing down on Jaskier’s hips to keep him from bucking.

Jaskier whines, trying to pull away — he doesn’t want this to be over, doesn’t want to accept that after this he has to  _ get up  _ out of this godsforsaken bed — but his hands guide Geralt up and down, up and down, a slick, warm slide of heat and teeth and tongue, and before he can shout a warning the string-tight pressure deep in his core snaps and Geralt sighs through his nose, swallowing him down to the root, his throat working around him and his own deep groan vibrating around him. 

He sucks on Jaskier’s over-sensitive cock for a few more torturous seconds before pulling off, giving the head a kiss and lick to clean up any mess he left behind. Jaskier breathes in sharply at the touch, but then, he likes the sweet pain of too much after coming — and Geralt is more than happy to oblige. 

“You’re going to be the end of me,” Jaskier manages after a while. Geralt has moved up from between his legs, following the soft caress of Jaskier’s fingers through his hair. He hums, then looks up at him, a smug grin on his face.

“I’d rather not be,” he says quietly. He looks way too pleased for a man that just had a mouthful of cock minutes earlier, but Jaskier can’t fault him for such a talent.

“Well,” he says. He sits up, tugging Geralt up with him. “Let’s go face the wrath of your brothers then, shall we? I’m sure they enjoyed my quite breathless performance last night.”

“And this morning,” Geralt says, still pleased. Jaskier smacks his arm.

“Get dressed, you fool. If I’m to be sniffed and ogled at, you are too.”

Geralt hums, smiling. He lifts himself off Jaskier with a final parting kiss, slow and sweet and everything he isn’t allowed to be in public — and then he’s dumping the bathwater from last night down a shallow shoot carved into one corner of the room and replacing it with hot water from the spigot. They enjoy another bath together, reluctantly washing away the flaky mess left on their stomachs and the sweat still drying on their skin. Jaskier braids back Geralt’s hair, tying it with the silver ribbon he kept from Marlene, and then they dress in warm clothing in preparation for the day.

The keep’s main room where the Witchers live is empty, but the hearth is hot with a large fire, so someone must be coming in frequently to feed it. Geralt feeds him a warm breakfast of fresh crispy bread with  _ kielbasa _ slices and creamy  _ twaróg _ he produces from a sealed glass container kept in the kitchens. He also brings out a jar of honey to sweeten the cheese with, smiling privately, and even though he has grease from the sausage on his lips, Jaskier can’t help kissing him for it.

After that, Geralt bundles Jaskier up in his cloak and they walk side by side outside. Geralt leads the way closer to the sounds of swords twanging against each other, back the way they had come the day before down the well-beaten path through crumbling inner walls to the training ground. Eskel and Lambert are swinging at each other as they round the corner, wearing only thin linen shirts and leather jerkins to protect from the unlikely event of hitting each other. Vesemir is standing off to one side, observing, but after spotting Geralt and Jaskier, he pushes off the low wooden fence encircling the training ground and approaches them with a kind smile.

“The first time in eighty years you’ve slept in,” he comments lightly. His piercing gaze flicks between the two of them but it isn’t accusing — it’s  _ amused. _

“I had my reasons,” Geralt says. He hides it well, but his own amusement is plain in the looseness of his face and shoulders. 

“I’m sure,” Vesemir answers. He looks at Jaskier, raising a brow, to which Jaskier drops into a shallow bow.

“I’m a handful,” Jaskier says, cocky, even with an unmistakable heat climbing up his neck. 

“More like a  _ mouthful _ ,” Lambert shouts. The three of them turn in time to see Eskel knock him off his feet with a well-casted  _ aard,  _ his sword clattering to the beaten earth and the fence behind him crumbling under his weight with a  _ crack  _ of splintered wood. Jaskier barks a laugh while he groans and gets to his feet, Geralt, Vesemir, and Eskel smiling with fond exasperation.

“Good shot,” Lambert says to Eskel. They meet in a handshake and a puff of dust as Eskel smacks him on the back, the both of them walking over.

“Leave yourself open like that and it’ll happen for real,” Eskel says. “Seriously, you gotta pay attention.”

“When are we ever gonna fight another Witcher? It’s not like there’s hundreds of us wandering around looking for fights.”

“No, but you are the most cunning thing around, usually,” Vesemir cuts in. His gaze sharpens on Lambert. “Well, most of you.”

Lambert scowls. “Why am I the butt of all the jokes suddenly? There’s a human here!”

“A human that is very capable of handling a Witcher himself, thank you,” Jaskier says. Eskel guffaws while Lambert scowls harder, looking as if he might hit something or laugh at any moment.

And then he points at Jaskier, his expression clearing some. “I like you. You sang  _ Toss a Coin,  _ right? And all the other Witcher songs?”

“Don’t, please,” Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier places a hand on his chest. “Why yes! I am a Master Bard, afterall.”

“You make this work easier sometimes, you know,” Eskel says. His tone is light and appreciative, and his smile is sweet despite the scars marring his face. “Being a Witcher is shitty work most of the time. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been chased out of town after the work’s been done.”

“Believe me,” Jaskier says, “I understand.”

His words seem to calm the other three Witchers some. He’s not a threat, not by a long shot, but he’d just established himself as a friend without even realizing it, and it warms him. These three men have lived immeasurably more lifetimes than he has, and have no real reason to place such easy trust in a human by principle. But their golden eyes are soft, and while Vesemir seems like the type to close doors to strangers, he doesn’t look at Jaskier with disdain.

“There’s some work to be done,” Vesemir says, cutting through the silence blanketing them. The three younger Witchers straighten, either consciously or from some long-learned reaction to his voice. “Eskel and Geralt, I need you two to go take care of some forktails getting close to the keep. Lambert, you’re going to take the cart and clear the rubble near the eastern rampart. I trust you didn’t hit your head too hard when Eskel threw you.”

Lambert snorts, swinging his sword with a roll of his wrist. “Please. Eskel is going to have to work harder than that.”

Jaskier is confident this must be an act, because Eskel reacts far too quickly and cleanly for someone that hadn’t been prompted to beforehand. He twists at the waist just enough to cast  _ aard _ square on Lambert, sending his brother, once again, back through the wooden fence with a shout and plume of dust. 

“Fucking  _ stop that! _ ” Lambert barks. He scrambles to his feet and rushes Eskel, who steps out of the way — sending Lambert barrelling through the group and into the stone wall behind them.

“You can fix the fence, too,” Vesemir says airily. “ _ Before _ you break it again.”

“Eskel did it!” Lambert growls. He’s got a cut on his face that’s already stopped bleeding, and his clothes are significantly dirtier than they were before Eskel sent him through the air the first time. 

Eskel grins, nasty but pleased. “You’re easy to prod, Lambert.”

Lambert snarls. “Fuck you guys. The last time I try to have some fun, I swear to the gods.”

He stomps off, dull sword in his hand, towards the keep. Jaskier watches, bemused, as Eskel turns his smile to him.

“Maybe he needs his beauty sleep.”

Jaskier snorts. “I think he’s my favourite. I thought all Witchers were big surly killjoys, but I’m happy that some of you have more personality than others.”

Geralt makes a wounded sound. “It’s not my fault your sole personality trait is  _ loud.” _

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, adopting a scandalized tone. “You take that back! You like my singing!”

Geralt sighs, and Eskel laughs. 

“Yeah, I like him too,” he says. “You’re coming around every winter, right?”

Jaskier chews on the inside of his cheek. It hadn’t occurred to him to stay every winter — he has Oxenfurt and the Academy, afterall, and as much as he loves Geralt, he loves teaching and performing, too. Kaer Morhen is beautiful in its solitude, but he loves the crowded streets of society, too, and it’s hard to think about giving it all up so quickly.

And then he looks up at Geralt, who he realizes has been watching him for nearly the whole time they’ve been standing here. There’s hope there in the carefully crafted mask of indifference on his face, a longing normally kept hidden away behind his sharp, keen gaze. Hope for more, and Jaskier’s heart breaks all over again.

“Yeah,” he says. Geralt’s face breaks into a tiny, barely-there grin. “Yeah, I’ll be around.”

“Great!” Eskel exclaims. “Maybe Lambert’ll behave now that someone’s around to properly kick his ass.”

“I highly doubt it,” Vesemir sighs. He waves his hand, and Eskel’s grin turns into an amused smirk. “Anyway — you two go along. Master Jaskier and I will stay behind and tend to the kitchens.”

“Don’t work him too hard,” Geralt teases. “He’s still a bard.”

Vesemir waves a hand at him. Jaskier gives Geralt a parting touch on the wrist, unsure how far he’s allowed to go, smiling when Geralt tips his chin at him in farewell. He leaves with Eskel, going towards the keep to gear up, while Vesemir motions for Jaskier to follow him. 

He trots after the older Witcher to a large kitchen that seems to only have one corner set aside for use. There are three stone ovens but two of them are boarded closed, and a large wooden table polished with time is pulled close to the one oven closest to the door, piled with jars of preserves and dried meats wrapped in salted cloth. The counters nearby are also cluttered with pots, pans, and food waiting to be pickled and salted, fresh vegetables and a butcher’s knife sitting on a cutting board larger than Jaskier’s torso. 

It’s quite possibly the most food Jaskier has seen where Witchers are concerned, and it makes him sigh. Vesemir gives him an odd look, raising one grey brow.

“Something smell bad?”

Jaskier snorts. “Please. Of the two of us, I think you’d know better than I would.”

Vesemir hums. He’s beginning to see where Geralt gets it from. 

“No,” Jaskier sighs. “It’s just. Weird, I guess. Being here — seeing more Witchers than just the one.”

“You had to have known,” Vesemir says. “I know you and Geralt have come across dead Witchers.”

He doesn’t sound angry or offended at finding dead Witchers. His tone is easy, conversational, like he wasn’t speaking about his dead brethren as if there were enough of them to not make a difference.

Jaskier hesitates only for a moment as that sinks in. “We have. One or two. But you  _ taught _ Geralt. He lived here, grew up here, and to see it all after only hearing about it —“

He thinks about the valley Kaer Morhen sits in, about the keep surrounded by crumbling walls and the vegetation slowly starting to take it all over with its gentle, destructive fingers. He wonders how many nights Geralt must have spent here training, how many weeks and months and years the world passed him by while the need to serve was beaten into him. He looks at Vesemir and sees a kind old man, but he also sees the yellow of his eyes, the hard line of his brow, the rough hands and the swords strapped to his back.

He’s a teacher, too. A hard and strict one. Witchers were not created with kind hands, and the ones belonging to this man were far from being clean of Geralt’s blood.

Vesemir’s eyes soften. He gestures around them, but he means more than this kitchen, this keep — he means all of it, Kaer Morhen, this valley, this world, as he speaks.

“This shapes you,” Vesemir says. “This life — none of us ask for it. We’re abandoned here or elsewhere, then brought here for a purpose we won’t understand until long after our blades have tasted blood. A long line of Witchers before us demand we be here, but we are far from appreciated in this world that needs us.”

Jaskier feels suddenly sick and very cold. “Was Geralt the last? Of the Witchers created here?”

“Lambert and Geralt, yes,” Vesemir says. “The two of them and a couple dozen more boys.”

A couple dozen more boys that aren’t here. Jaskier wrings his hands together, looking around the keep as if he could possibly see all the ghosts of the children that died here, were tortured here. Kaer Morhen is beautiful, but she hides her secrets well, and to suddenly become privy of them makes Jaskier dizzy.

Vesemir lays a kind hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, grounding him in the smell of salted meat and baking bread. “It was a long time ago,” he says quietly. “We don’t even have the equipment to create Witchers anymore.”

That settles his stomach some, but Jaskier has a hard time shaking the nauseous feeling clinging to his insides. 

“Is that why Geralt has white hair?” Jaskier asks. “You all have the eyes, but he’s different from the three of you. Not just physically, either.”

Vesemir’s face shutters for the first time since meeting him. “That’s partially why. The Trials, they affect each boy differently, but the outcome is predictable enough that the methods were fine-tuned. But Geralt was an outlier, always the strongest and fastest, so when the Trial of the Grasses came, some of us —“

He stops. His voice is low, and even, as if he were discussing the weather or especially unimportant news. Not the atrocities committed here, not the torture of young boys and men to create something needed but unwanted. The blood on his hands is undeniable, and Jaskier has a feeling that, for the first time, he’s somehow cornered Vesemir into seeing it clearly.

He looks at Jaskier and he suddenly looks sad, and tired, and weighted with all that he’s allowed and participated in. He looks at Jaskier and seems apologetic, as if Jaskier’s forgiveness could abate his guilt. Jaskier doesn’t know if he should be grateful he seems to exude the confidence to earn such respect, or offended that it seems to come from his relationship to Geralt that earns it for him.

But he wants it, suddenly. Badly. If not for himself than for Geralt, who isn’t even here to accept it on his own behalf, but who deserves it anyway, whether spoken or not. So he waits him out, determined not to offer what little comfort he feels like giving.

Vesemir doesn’t seem interested in accepting it, anyway. He swallows and looks away, towards the food and away from Jaskier, something inside him settling as if a great weight has been moved and a hole inside him has been left in its wake.

“He went through it twice,” Vesemir says. “All boys go through it when they come of age. Most don’t make it — not for lack of a will to live, but because what it does to us, what it makes us —“

He shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“After the Trial of Grasses, you become a Witcher. The training is only half of what makes us what we are, and the rest is the Trial. The mutagens, the stress to the system to make them take, all of that… He’s always been faster and smarter. The mutagens took, and when he came out the other end — well. You see.”

“He still feels,” Jaskier bites out. “He’s still a man. You can’t honestly believe that after all you’ve seen him do, that he’s just an emotionless weapon like they think you all are?”

Vesemir is quiet for a while. Jaskier can’t breathe the anger inside him is so hot and strong, stifling the breath out of him with how fiercely it grips at his throat. He wants to scream, wants to shout and sing and say so many things that will prove Vesemir  _ wrong _ — but the old Witcher is already looking at him with eyes that know, and in an instant Jaskier deflates.

“Why don’t you go spend time with the horses,” he says. Kindly, apologetically, as if he’s done everything in the world to offend him and he’s truly sorry for doing it. “I can take care of this. You don’t need to keep an old man company.”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He lingers long enough so Vesemir knows he’s forgiven without being told, then he escapes out into the mountain air, only able to breathe when he’s put the training grounds between himself and the kitchen. The stables aren’t too far away after that, so he wanders his way over, only slightly disappointed when he finds every stall empty except for an unfamiliar black mare sleeping near the middle of the left row. 

He gives her oats and hay and pets her soft nose as she dozes, finding comfort in the warmth of her breath against his skin. Her coat is soft and shiny, her whiskers going white with age, but she’s still strong and doesn’t seem to ache as she moves when she wakes. He brushes her down again just because the movement soothes him and she seems to enjoy it, and then he finds his way through the keep to Geralt’s room, burrowing under the blankets and furs piled on their bed. 

It still smells like Geralt. Like woodsmoke and leather, a constant earthy scent that eases the tension keeping him taut. He kicks off his boots and wiggles out of his thick clothing so it's just his skin against the blankets and sheets, just himself and Geralt’s comforting smell all around him, hidden away from Kaer Morhen’s lies and Vesemir’s careful protection of them. He dozes, but doesn’t know for how long, the fire growing low and the setting sun bathing the room in soft oranges and purples. 

He must have fallen asleep properly at some point because when he opens his eyes next, the room is dark except for the fire casting one side of the room in dancing shadows. A body is pressed to his own, warm and familiar in the arms wrapped around him and the face pressed into the nape of his neck. He sighs, deep and comforted, and Geralt stirs behind him, his lips dropping careful kisses across his shoulders and back.

“You don’t smell like you worked at all,” Geralt murmurs. It’s noncommittal, leaving Jaskier free to lie if he wants to, and oh how he loves this silly man. He turns in his arms and kisses Geralt fully, revelling in the taste of him before pulling back.

“How much did he say?” he asks instead of answering.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “Enough. He didn’t have to say much at all, but I think he felt he needed to. For you, as an apology.”

Jaskier feels his face screw up in anger. “And you? You don’t deserve one? After all you’ve been through.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. Quiet, gentle, filled with many things but not malicious, not angry. His eyes are gentle, too, and Jaskier desperately wants to know what color they were before it was stolen from him forever, wants to know what else this world has taken from him and hidden away for only these broken, silent walls to remember.

“I’ve lived for a long time,” Geralt continues. “And I will live for a long time after you. I’ve had the luxury of learning forgiveness, even though every day I’m reminded just how different I am and how much the world resents having me here. I’m special only because I survived and nothing else, but if I had the choice to do it again, then Jaskier — you have to believe me when I say I’d do it. One time or one thousand times more, I’d do it.”

The fight that had been building inside him, hot and burning with so much self-righteousness, dissipates nearly instantly. He had no right to be angry, even on Geralt’s behalf. It infuriates Jaskier how much the world expects him to accept things, to stumble along with the status quo as if in any other life things could be different — it infuriates him that the world created Geralt and hates him for it all the same. Humans were cruel, Jaskier knew this, knew it just as intimately as Geralt did, but to see such wholesale acceptance of what was done to him simply because he’d  _ lived long enough — _

“Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly, sweetly. Monotone like everything else, but also not, also full with so much he can’t readily say. Jaskier leans into him, pressing his face into Geralt’s neck, winding his arms around him and squeezing. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know whether to be sad or angry or nothing at all, so he decides to feel only the warm comfort of Geralt all around him, encompassing all he knows for one more night.

——

Vesemir doesn’t treat him any differently but he doesn’t ask Jaskier to do much after their talk in the kitchen. The other three Witchers have repairs to make and monsters to chase off, so while they complete their chores, Jaskier takes up his lute and goes exploring.

Kaer Morhen hides her secrets well enough, yet she’s still a sight to behold. Much of the keep is falling apart from a recent attack, the western rampart crumbling under its own weight from a hole blown clean through it. There are other signs of an attack, ruts dug deep in the earth and stray arrows and sooty, blackened scars left by magical attacks on the bleached stones of the keep’s walls. Vesemir has done his best to rid the keep of this violent history, and time has washed away what he could not, but it’s hard to erase such violence, and Jaskier jots it down in notes and drawings, sometimes finding a limerick or two, sometimes finding nothing but an ache in his chest that refuses to name itself.

He wanders up spiral staircases and through hallways long left abandoned, and at one point, on the opposite side of the keep’s outer complex and far out of the way where the remaining Witchers seem to live, he finds a longhouse that must have once housed the boys that lived here. Much of the wooden floorboards have rotted through with time — it’s all over a century old, with the last of the boys that must’ve stayed here being Geralt’s group, so he refuses to step foot into  _ that _ particularly old and decrepit deathtrap — and nature has slowly worked herself through the crumbling mortar to claim whatever’s left. Some bunk beds survive, and at the very back of the longhouse, Jaskier can see a large hearth with child-sized chairs placed around it in a half-circle. Usually, on his travels with Geralt, places like this have toys scattered about, signs of life and laughter long extinguished with time and tragedy. Usually, there was once life here at all, especially in a place as big as this.

But there’s nothing. A dull, rusted pair of swords sits at the entrance to the longhouse, their points sunk into the earth, left alone in the elements as if in offering. An apology made long ago, perhaps, and for a while Jaskier simply sits beside them and doesn’t do much at all besides stare up at the sky as it grows grey with clouds.

Geralt finds him sometimes, sniffing him out after returning from whatever errand Vesemir sent him on. Sometimes he shows up sweaty and bare-chested from repairs, and other times, fully armored and blood-spattered. Whichever way he appears, he’s always exhausted, and Jaskier is more than happy to soothe his pains with gentle songs and gentler hands.

“You don’t have to hide from him,” Geralt says one day. He’s returned from killing some drowners near the lake Kaer Morhen guards to the west, muddy and soaked from rolling out of the way of their deceptively quick lunges. Jaskier wishes he could be out there with him, but winter is coming quickly, with snow already beginning to fall and sticking in places where the shadows gather.

Jaskier hums. “I know. I think I’m trying to reconcile something. I just don’t know what.”

Geralt seems to understand. He tugs Jaskier up to his feet and leads him by the hand through the keep, past empty rooms and long-forgotten hallways. Jaskier had wandered deep today, marking his path with a crumbling piece of chalk along the corners so he could find his way back, and Geralt effortlessly navigates through the maze of the keep as if he has its floor plan memorized. He probably does, but Jaskier startles out of his thoughts when Geralt brings him to Roach and lifts him up until the saddle.

“I’m not properly dressed,” Jaskier tries. Geralt mounts up behind him, wrapping his fur-lined cloak around them both and dropping a kiss to his hair.

“It’s not far,” he says. “Ten minutes, and we’ll be back.”

Jaskier doesn’t argue. Geralt takes him out of the keep’s gates for the first time since arriving, leading Roach down a path that grows thinner and thinner the longer they travel. It’s clear none of the Witchers use it often, if at all, and pretty soon it turns into a game trail that even Roach is hesitant to navigate. At that point, Geralt slides from the saddle and helps Jaskier down, taking his hand and leading him up towards the mouth of a cave in the dense trees that wasn’t carved by nature’s hands.

Geralt flicks his wrist and  _ igni _ lights torches Jaskier didn’t see before down a crooked line into the cave’s depths. It’s wet inside, but the sconces hiss and pop as they evaporate the water soaked into their rusty iron faces, the only sound besides Jaskier’s breathing as Geralt leads him down into the cave’s depths. Stairs have been carved most of the way in, but beside the stairs there's a slope lined with old, rotted wooden boards. He doesn’t understand why until the cave opens up into a wide room, lit by the warm light of the torches, casting all sorts of iron contraptions into dancing shadows on the walls.

There’s gurneys placed in even intervals along the wall, interspersed with overturned wooden tables and the glitter of broken glass on the wet stone floor. Even after so long, the room reeks of acrid smoke and rotting wood, a smell so sharp he has to cover his mouth and nose with his hand.

But he can see what Geralt wanted him to see. Most of the iron maidens and gurneys have been piled in the center of the room, and most of them have been melted together by a long-ago fire that caused the smell. Geralt doesn’t bring him any further inside, instead tugging him close, offering comfort where he should be taking his own.

“Vesemir burned it,” Geralt says, and even with how softly he speaks, his voice bounces through the cave, loud and reverberating. Jaskier can’t imagine what this place must have been like when the screams of so many boys — of  _ Geralt _ — had struck these walls so long ago. “He doesn’t usually condone the erasure of knowledge, no matter how cruel, but this — what they’d done to make us — he couldn’t let it continue. Not when it could still be used on someone else.”

It’s far from a justification, and far, far from being an apology. But Jaskier understands, and he nods, and he very quickly memorizes the hulking shapes of the melted equipment, burning it into his brain as sharply as it must be in Geralt’s memory.

Geralt doesn’t linger. As soon as Jaskier starts to tense, he leads him out, the torches winking out one by one behind them in a hiss and sputter of smoke. It isn’t what he expected, this hollow womb in this verdant place, surrounded by the passing of seasons and wars and the ever-constant march of time. This is the birthplace of who Geralt is now, this sad, broken, bitter hole in the earth, but he supposes it’s fitting.

Kindness is born from heartache. Geralt’s blood soaks the dirt here, is turned into the folds of time a century passed, has nurtured however many springs and summers after leaving this place. He was stolen, tortured, molded into a perfect weapon thrust into hands unfit to hold him, and yet he’s kind. He lifts Jaskier into Roach’s saddle and settles behind him gingerly, as if he may scare Jaskier, and wraps him back up in his cloak. His body holds the memory of every boy that perished here, and yet he isn’t angry, isn’t vindictive, doesn’t carry a broken piece of himself, wounded and bloody, as if the world may strike him down for caring. 

He’s kind. And understanding. He feeds Jaskier a warm meal with the others and then leads him back to their room as the first real snowfall comes in, gentle hands and soft words urging him on. Jaskier feels like spun glass, but instead of shattering he lets himself be cradled, if only for a little while.

——

“You look a little better today.”

Eskel purposefully makes his steps loud to announce his presence, and Jaskier smiles. He strums his lute, letting the chords float out over the white expanse of the cold, silent valley. He’s found a spot that must be frequented by the other Witchers, because while he comes here to compose, more often than not one of them is close by despite how secluded this area of the ramparts seems to be.

“I had a mortality crisis, I think,” Jaskier says. His fingers pick at the strings, unfeeling to the bite of the snow gently curling in the air, flecking his cloak in white crystals. “All over now, but it was a lot to take in. My perceptions didn’t line up with reality.”

Eskel makes a thoughtful sound. He leans on the rampart next to Jaskier, folding his arms against his chest and his gloved hands into his armpits. He casts his gaze around them, quiet for a while, listening to Jaskier start and stop as he works through a complicated verse he’s unsure about.

“It’s nasty business,” Eskel says. “Witchers, I mean. You’ve only known one, right?”

Jaskier nods, his smile turning wistful. He kicks his heels, feeling the weightlessness of gravity underneath him as he sits, but he won’t fall. The ramparts are wide, and Eskel is a warm reassurance next to him, attentive even as he looks around lazily.

“Geralt’s a good one. A Witcher.” 

“In trade?”

Eskel hums, and it’s so like Geralt it nearly makes Jaskier laugh. All these Witchers hum. He wonders if it’s training or simply a side effect of becoming what they are.

“Yes,” he says. He tips his head, looking at Jaskier finally, and he stops strumming to look back. “But I mean as a man. Some of us turn sour, Jaskier. Because of age or the world or the monotony of the Path, but sometimes you come across a brother and all he sees is coin.”

“And not the reason why you’re on the Path,” Jaskier finishes. Eskel nods, looking thoughtful.

“You ever think it’s because of the Path that they turn that way?” Jaskier continues. “Men do bad things for money, but sometimes it’s just life, too. Circumstances, or the things that set them in those circumstances. People do bad things for money, but they also do bad things because they’re bad people. Sometimes those people are Witchers.”

Eskel frowns, but he doesn’t appear angry. He straightens, peering at Jaskier from under his fringe like he’s seeing him for the first time. Jaskier doesn’t know whether he should be afraid or flattered, but it isn’t a bad feeling, at least not now.

It feels like Geralt. Like he’s being watched but not because he’s a threat — it’s because he  _ isn’t _ one. He couldn’t strike out at these Witchers not because he’d lose a limb. No, he can’t strike out because the world already crushed them and asked them to get up and carry on anyway.

“You sure you aren’t magical somehow?” Eskel asks. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, and it makes Jaskier relax.

“If I did, I think you’d know long before me,” he says. Eskel snorts. “Besides, it’s nothing profound.” He picks at his lute again — a sad tune, one to match the stillness around them. “Just an observation.”

“Maybe,” Eskel says. “Or maybe you just figured out why we exist at all.”

_ We.  _ Not he and Jaskier, or the world and this place, Kaer Morhen, this valley, this Sphere that they find themselves intruding in day after day.  _ We _ does not include humanity, not as Jaskier recognizes it, not as the cities and towns and the great wheel of war and progress slowly edging forward.

_ Witchers _ is what he means. Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, Geralt — and so many others he doesn’t know. This keep is home to four of them, but more lived here, a long time ago, and more still roam the Continent somewhere. At some point, someone thought of something especially cruel, and instead of turning away and finding a better solution, a better answer, he turned down that path full-tilt and here they were.

Kaer Morhen. The School of the Wolf. Viper, Griffon, Cat, Bear — there were others, too, some he’s sure even time has erased. But this is where they started, where they were created, where boys marched in by the dozens and left in meager handfuls. They trained within these walls, learned to fight tooth and nail for victory and survival in that order, and nowhere else does Jaskier feel so acutely the inhumanity of such a mind that conconted it all. 

Because that mind had been human. Once upon a time, a man that wouldn’t be anymore devised the Trial of Grasses, and now stood a keep and the Witchers and the Path, and oh, what a sad song that would make.

He must have said something out loud because Eskel presses his shoulder into his hip, a comfort given freely and without restraint. “It’s okay,” he says. “If I had to do it again, I would.”

“So would Geralt,” Jaskier answers quietly.

His heart twists as Eskel’s expression turns sad. “Yeah. He would. But he wouldn’t be alone this time.”

This time. He’s not alone, not anymore, not with his brothers around him and Ciri and Yennefer and Jaskier. He doesn’t have to do this alone, not with the lot of them, not anymore even as this world batters him down and demands he get up for some paltry pieces of gold. Jaskier is bound and determined to be that hand up for him, and while his fingers are numb from the cold, he strings along a song, for this valley, for Kaer Morhen, for the Witcher beside him and the one in his heart — for the world to see and finally cower before him, to ask for an apology from  _ him _ rather than asking for one for its own cruelties.

——

Yet the world  _ is _ cruel. Cruel beyond what Jaskier is capable of imaging, beyond the mangle of melted iron on a damp cavern floor left forgotten to time and memory. It is ruthless, and vindictive, and much like the mountain, it leaves Jaskier reeling.

“Geralt!”

His voice bounces across the snow for a split second before being swallowed up in the evergreens, and Roach startles next to him, jerking on her halter before he calms her.

“Shh, girl,” he says, rubbing his palm down her cheek. “I’m sorry, but shouting is the easiest to get his attention, don’t you think?”

She huffs. Her breath billows out of her in big clouds of white mist, belying her unease, but she stays put, leaning her head over his shoulder.

“He can’t have gone far,” Jaskier continues. He lightens his tone even as he feels dread settling low in his gut. “Come on. Maybe he needs some help lifting his sword or something!”

Roach huffs again. But she doesn’t complain when he climbs into her saddle and urges her on along the path of footsteps Geralt left in his wake, nearly an hour ago now. Jaskier hums to keep himself from shaking apart, but his fingers are still loose on the reins, jittery and filled with an energy that leaves him feeling sick to his stomach.

“Geralt!” he shouts again. “Geralt, I understand my presence is quite crucial to your Witcher-ing, but I’d much rather you reveal yourself now if this is a surprise!”

The forest is quiet around him. He and Roach round a hillock, revealing Kaer Morhen across the valley. It’s an hour’s ride away at a leisurely pace, and already it’s getting dark — Jaskier silently promises to himself that, if he can’t find Geralt by the time the sun slips behind the mountain peaks, he’ll head back and gather the others to help him search.

“A simple rock troll my ass,” Jaskier mutters. “What self respecting rock troll is out and about in this snow? Roach, why didn’t you tell me that monsters were so active during the winter?”

Roach wickers, stepping through Geralt’s footsteps, following them dutifully. 

“You’re right,” Jaskier sighs. “If they were active, he wouldn’t have to go away to Kaer Morhen every winter.”

He gets lost in the daydream for a brief moment. The vivid image of Geralt spread out on his bed in his rooms at the Academy, loose and relaxed and safe, waited on and without a worry as to how he might survive the coming spring — it’s nice. Oxenfurt is not as pretty in the winter, sure, and there’s definitely more people, and neighbors, and  _ loud _ unlike the serene quiet encompassing Kaer Morhen and the valley surrounding it, but he’d be —

Blood. Roach takes him through a part in some trees and he sees it, bright red sprays of arterial blood across the surface of the snow. Jaskier scrambles from the saddle, dropping into the center of what appears to be the scene of a fight, ruts and gashes dug through the foot of crisp snowdrifts, some ruts deep enough to glimpse the dark brown bracken underneath it all. Blood rings it all, some in little droplets but a lot of it, oh there was a lot of it, even in the growing dark of the evening he could  _ see _ it frozen to the surface and it makes him sick.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, his voice wavering. Roach squeals, tossing her head, and he snatches her reins before she can bolt at his agitation. “Geralt! Fuck, what the happened to you?”

The crunch and shift of snow as Roach dances beside him hides the footsteps approaching behind him, but he feels it like a chill up his spine as if he were being watched. He freezes, squeezing Roach’s reins so tightly his leather glove creaks, feeling for once in his life like a mouse in the gaze of a snake and yet he’s too afraid to even turn around and watch it strike.

But instead of being snatched in the jaws of some unknown assailant, a familiar hand closes over his own and eases his grip on the reins. Jaskier yelps and jerks away, caught by another hand on his hip that drags him back. Studded armor presses against his cheek and then he looks up, the fear and the sick, roiling feeling in his gut melting away in a heartbeat.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. He wraps his arms around his wide chest and squeezes, reaching up to kiss the Witcher’s chin. “Don’t do that to me, you dolt! I honestly thought something happened to you.”

Geralt hums, but it’s rough and pained. Jaskier peers further up and then jerks back, hurrying to yank off the cloak wrapped around his shoulders and bringing it around Geralt’s own, pulling the hood up.

“No wonder you didn’t come back,” Jaskier says, low, nearly only a passing of breath. “Come, let’s get you back.”

Geralt squeezes his glassy black eyes shut and obeys Jaskier pushing him towards a calmer Roach. He’s paler than the snow crunching underneath them but he doesn’t shiver, curling up against Jaskier’s back instead once the bard climbs into the saddle ahead of him, hiding his face away in the scarf bundled around his neck.

Jaskier bites back any smart comments until they’re back at the keep and Geralt is safely hidden away under the blankets of their bed. Eskel is quietly cleaning his swords in a chair at the fireplace while Jaskier mends his armor, three big rents torn through the side of the chestpiece corresponding with the answering gashes on Geralt’s left side.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier gripes quietly. Eskel looks up, a faintly amused look crossing his scarred face. Jaskier meets it with his own dry amusement as Geralt groans, his voice thick with sleep.

“Thought you’d go back,” he says. He shifts, nothing more than a moving lump of blankets. “You didn’t, so I stayed close by.”

“In case I tripped and hurt myself.” Jaskier sighs. “Geralt. Next time, say something. Sulking around because your ears and eyes hurt is quite possibly the most melodramatic thing I’ve seen you do.”

“Killed the troll.”

Geralt’s voice tilts up, searching for approval rather than asking a question. Eskel snorts a quiet laugh, and Jaskier can’t help fighting back the exasperated sigh.

“Yes, darling. It’s dead. I’m proud of you for not getting yourself eviscerated by such a powerful foe that caught you so unprepared.”

Geralt hums. He seems to fall asleep again, stilling and going quiet, so Jaskier sets aside the mending and rubs his hands over his face.

“Is he normally such a handful?” Eskel asks.

“Unfortunately.” Jaskier drops his hands, meeting Eskel’s amused glance. “Are you all like this?”

“Like what?”

“Self righteous. My way or no way — “ Jaskier puffs up his chest, “ —  _ I can take the pain, Jaskier, don’t try helping me! Grr!” _

His poor imitation of Geralt’s rough monotone earns him a quiet laugh from the other Witcher. 

“Yeah, pretty much. It’s beaten into us before we learn how to properly wield a sword. I’m not joking about the beaten part, either.”

Eskel doesn’t seem too concerned. Jaskier is, though, and before he can think otherwise, he’s up and placing a hand on Eskel’s shoulder, offering a small amount of comfort where none has probably been offered before.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “You’re a good brother, and a very good friend. I hope you know that.”

Eskel blinks up at him, and then he smiles. He’s definitely the most emotive of the four Wolves, and especially the most honest. He has no problem showing how he’s feeling, his emotions coming easy and without restraint. Jaskier wonders how rumors of Witchers devoid of all emotion came from when Witchers like Eskel and Lambert and Geralt were roaming around, but then again, it wasn’t necessarily Witchers that thought up such a rumor in the first place, wasn’t it?

“You’re a good friend too,” Eskel says sincerely. “For a long time, you’ve been a good one to him.” And then his eyes glitter with a mischief that’s grown customary in his yellow eyes, and his smile turns conniving. “He talked about you a lot these past couple winters. Did you know that?”

Jaskier goes back to his mending, but it’s slow going with his attention on Eskel. “Lambert said something, but  _ years?” _

Eskel nods, his marred lip showing teeth as he grins. “Lambert wasn’t lying, but he also doesn’t get to hear all the details like I do. He runs his mouth, which none of us like, especially Geralt.”

“He does call him pretty boy quite often,” Jaskier says. 

“That’s not the worst of it.”

Jaskier bites his lip. He looks at the (hopefully) sleeping lump on the bed, distracted from his mending again. Eskel doesn’t stop him when he gets up to fold away some the blankets from Geralt’s face, revealing a peacefully sleeping Witcher devoid of any lingering pain from the potion he swallowed during the fight with the rock troll.

“He sleeps easier with you around, too,” Eskel says quietly. Jaskier looks over at him and he points a finger at his own heart, tapping his leather jacket a few times at the bard’s raised brow. “Heartbeat. It’s slow to you, but it’s  _ really _ slow when he’s actually sleeping. I can hear it from here.”

Jaskier feels his face heat. “Well. I hope it’s not going too fast when he’s awake, then?”

“Nah,” Eskel says. “Only when a certain bard is, ah,  _ occupying _ his time.”

Jaskier’s face is definitely burning now. “Alright, out. I can take care of the rest of the repairs, I don’t need you making comments about my performance in bed.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Eskel says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just so easy to rib you about, it’s not like anything else is happening around here.”

Jaskier shoos him out the door. “Go bug Lambert or something, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the distraction from his brooding.”

Eskel laughs. “Don’t ride him too hard, yeah? He’s still healing, and side wounds always take a while to stitch closed on their own without a lapful of moaning bard to make it all worse.”

“Out!”

Eskel’s pleased snickering can be heard all the way down the hall before he disappears around the bend of the staircase. Jaskier shuts the door and locks it (for whatever that’s worth when sharing a keep with three other Witchers) and begins to clean up, trying to be as silent as possible. He clicks Geralt’s silver sword back into its sheath and sets it with its steel twin next to the bedside table, and then he picks up the chest piece again, moving over to Geralt’s bedside to continue working in the quiet.

The push and pull of leather being punctured and the leather cord whispering through the holes he creates is the only sound besides Geralt’s slightly hitched breathing for a while. This is a familiar chore that sets him at ease, even as he still finds flecks of blood across the armor’s black, dull surface, hidden under the flat rivets adorning it and in the creases of its sewn seams. Geralt will likely clean it again when he wakes, but Jaskier has mended enough times to pick up on how the Witcher desires his armor to be fixed, so when he finally pulls the thread through the final hole and pulls it tight, he’s confident Geralt will be satisfied. He places it with the rest of his armor and starts on the leather jerkin, mending it closed too, and then the cotton shirt, and his leather trousers. 

Once it’s all done, he rinses his hands in a warm basin of water he draws from the spigot. He dips a soft rag in it and pulls the blankets away from Geralt, hushing him when his face screws up and he shifts to bury himself back under them. Jaskier doesn’t let him get away, chasing him with a gentle hand on his side so he’ll turn to reveal his wounds. He dabs the warm rag around them, cleaning away seeping blood from them, humming his soft approval at the skin slowly knitting itself together and the clear-yellow scabs beginning to form.

Geralt sighs, then, a great heave of breath as he’s roused. Jaskier abandons the rag on the bedside table and sheds his clothes, climbing into the bed next to him, tugging the covers up enough to lock away their combined body heat. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier asks quietly. Geralt nuzzles into his neck, seeking more heat, and Jaskier lets him for a while before he jostles him awake again, ignoring his annoyed grunt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “You know you don’t have to hide from me.”

He knows the Witcher is awake. His breathing is deep and even, like meditation, like he’s seen dozens of times before. He pinches Geralt’s shoulder, leaning back to meet the weak glare Geralt gives him when he does.

His eyes are clear yet bleary, the golden iris nearly swallowing his thin pupils. Still light-sensitive, then. “I don’t like being seen like that.” He’s quiet when he speaks next, his words breathed through more than said. “Especially in front of you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier runs his hands through Geralt’s hair, down his shoulders and back. His skin is still overheated, his system still chewing through the potion he downed, but he doesn’t shy from Jaskier’s touch. 

“You have to let me see,” Jaskier says. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me, sweetheart.”

“I’m not human.”

“But you’re hurt. You can’t seriously be having this crisis  _ now _ , after everything’s been said and done, Geralt.”

“I have to protect you.”

_“Geralt.”_ Jaskier pushes him up, once again ignoring his pained grunt as he does even though it breaks his heart a little more. Geralt glares at him, squinting, his hair a mess from rolling around in the blankets to get comfortable. Jaskier frames his face with his hands and brings their foreheads together, trying very hard to keep his voice even while his heart beats frantically up his throat.

“Geralt,” he says, “please. You’re protecting me, every day, but please. Let me protect you too. Even when you think no one should see, even when you think you look big and scary. Let me, Geralt. Give me a chance.”

The Witcher deflates between his hands. This is a tired argument like all the others, a circle they chase each other in just like how people treat Geralt, how people look at Geralt, how the world chews him up and spits him out and sends him on his miserable little way. Jaskier picks up the pieces every time, and he wants to continue doing that, but he can’t when his Witcher is so  _ intent _ on pushing him away with the littlest, tiniest things. 

He wonders where they went off-page together, or if this is just something that Geralt has kept hidden all this time. He’s not normally so reticent to accepting help, not in the last decade they’ve known each other, but this is also his home. A safe place, no matter what Kaer Morhen represents as a whole. Even with that deep, dark hole in the earth, the mangled body of iron representing everything a society tortured him into being. 

Jaskier sighs. “Just let me, Geralt. Please. I’m begging you.”

The Witcher nods. He stretches out on the sheets again, and Jaskier follows him down. He doesn’t sleep that night, the image of Geralt’s blood fanning across the snow still too fresh in his mind. He doesn’t sleep until the sun starts to peek through the curtains, assuring some semblance of safety from an unspeakable fear even Jaskier can’t bring himself to put into a song. 

——

“Alright, now swing.”

Jaskier lifts the sword and manages to hack away one arm of the training dummy in one swift strike. He also manages, for the first time, not to drop the sword in the same movement, hefting it back towards him and resting the tip between his feet, his shoulders and biceps burning.

Geralt smiles, small and proud. “Good. Now we just have to get you used to doing it one-handed.”

“Darling,” Jaskier says. “I love you. I do. But have you seen my arms? They’re for carrying a lute and embracing soft maidens, not swinging around this massive -  _ thing!” _

“I’m not a soft maiden, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighs. “No, you’re not. But your bosom is just as pillowy, my dear.”

If Geralt could truly blush, he imagines he would be right now with the way he turns away in embarrassment. Jaskier grins and lifts the sword again, trying very hard not to show how much it tires him to do so, hefting it in both hands and swinging out with all his might. The dummy sustains another life-threatening injury, straw bleeding from its ripped linen midsection, slumping to the wet slushy mess beneath it to join its arm. 

Geralt comes behind him, gently prying away one of Jaskier’s hands from the hilt of his sword and replacing it with his own. He cradles Jaskier’s waist in the other, drawing him back against his armored chest, pushing his knees in with his own and dropping his body into a familiar stance the Witcher takes when readying for an attack from an enemy. Jaskier lifts the arm holding the sword the way Geralt wordlessly shows him, gripping it as tightly as he can even as Geralt takes the majority of its weight.

“I’m going to let go,” Geralt breathes in his ear. It makes Jaskier shiver, but he stays still, smiling at the lips that brush his skin. “I’m going to swing one time to show you, and then I want to do it on your own, so you see how easy it is to wield it.”

Jaskier nods. He shifts his feet wider, getting comfortable in the wide stance Geralt has him in, missing the heat of Geralt’s body behind him for only a moment when the Witcher steps away. Geralt lifts his arm, then strikes quickly in a horizontal arc that swipes the body of the dummy open again. His reach is longer than Jaskier’s, more confident, and for the first time in the two decades he’s seen Geralt fight, he feels the raw power in his body, the strength hidden in a thin, lithe form such as his. 

Geralt swings and he can  _ feel _ how effortlessly it is for him, how easy and ingrained the movement is as opposed to the foreign ache in Jaskier’s arms to simply hold himself still. Geralt swings and Jaskier sees how many heads he’s cut from drowners and men alike, how many wyverns he’s run through and how many kikimore and selkimore he’s felled with the swipe and stab of this blade in his hand. It whistles through the air, and then Geralt drops the point to the snow, a quick movement that the Witcher behind him likely doesn’t even think about. And then he’s gone, stepping fully away, and Jaskier looks back at him with a question on his lips. 

“Now you,” Geralt says. He gestures to the suffering dummy, a proud glint in his eye, and Jaskier obeys without thinking too hard about it.

The blade, while heavy enough with two hands, is heavier with one. But he hefts it up all the same, imagining it as an extension of his limb instead of just a weapon, a tool to kill and maim. He relaxes into the stance Geralt has placed him in and swings with all the strength he has, envisioning himself as Geralt, as a man with so much power hidden away in the barrel of his chest and the stretch of his arms. He swings and the dummy shudders, then the top of it falls away, and Jaskier can’t fight down the excitement that bubbles up under his ribs.

“Yes!” he shouts. He swings the sword again, wilder this time, and the wooden spine of the dummy splinters as it's hacked again into more pieces. “Ha! I can swing a sword! I can swing a sword and  _ cut wood!” _

Geralt snatches the blade away before he can possibly hurt him or himself, but he’s smiling, wide and crooked. “You did. Straw dummies don’t stand a chance, now.”

“Geralt! I can swing a sword!”

“You’re only marginally worse than Ciri.”

Jaskier hops around and shoves Geralt in the chest. “Ha! Ciri  _ wishes _ she was as good as me. I’ve been watching you for a while now, I think I can take on a wyvern if I tried.”

Geralt catches him when he jumps into his arms, the sword dropping into the snow without a second thought. He returns the soft kiss Jaskier plants on his lips, unconcerned as Jaskier starts to wiggle and wrap his limbs around him. 

“Now you can protect yourself,” he says. He kisses Jaskier’s cheek, then the bridge of his nose. 

“Mm, maybe not quite so well,” Jaskier says. “Will you keep kissing me like that if I keep practicing?”

Geralt snorts. “I’ll keep kissing you anyway. How about that?”

Jaskier slides to his feet, humming like it takes much thought to decide if this is a bargain worth taking. “Deal. You’re hard to negotiate with, Master Witcher.”

Geralt casts his eyes heavenward. “Let’s move away from the sword for a while. It’s obvious it goes to your head.”

Jaskier picks up Geralt’s sword, handing it to him with a smug grin. The Witcher slides it into its sheath on his back. “Well, I am a slayer of dummies. Nilfgaard won’t know what hit them.”

“Ear pain, probably.”

Jaskier gasps, scandalized. “You take that back!”

Instead of answering, Geralt tugs him close and places a dagger in his hand. Its spathe is a dark leather with songbirds and buttercups tooled quite delicately across its surface, and the hilt has a wolf carved into it, racing along its width with a carefully engraved silver cap at the end.

Jaskier turns it over his palms, then slips it out of its sheath, admiring the mirror-like finish of the gently curving silver blade. He catches Geralt’s reflection in it, then looks at him, only realizing his mouth has been hanging open since the dagger was given to him because of the quietly amused look on Geralt’s face.

“A little on the nose, don’t you think?” Jaskier says, but it comes out breathless.

Geralt leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “I made it. For you. So yes, it’s a little on the nose.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Oh, Geralt. You really —“

“I had to,” Geralt says quietly. He closes Jaskier’s fist around the dagger’s hilt, and it sits so nicely in his hand Jaskier has to wonder how long Geralt spent trying to get the fit just right for his palm. It warms him more than the gift does, leaving him speechless.

“Silent, I see,” Geralt says, low and teasing.

Jaskier shoves him, but then draws him back, sliding the dagger into its sheath and holding it as close as he holds Geralt. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t care, unafraid of showing such weakness even if they’d been surrounded by an audience of a hundred thousand Academy students. 

“Thank you,” he manages after a moment. 

Geralt’s chest rumbles underneath his cheek. “I’ll protect you. But you need to protect me, Jaskier. Even when I don’t want it.”

Jaskier nods. He rises up and kisses Geralt’s chin, his cheek, his smiling mouth. “Of course, my wolf. Who else is going to sing ballads about you slaying monsters if not for me?”

“Just you,” Geralt murmurs, meeting him in the middle. His lips are soft, and pressed between them is the dagger and his medallion, a bite of body-warm metal that Jaskier memorizes against his skin so he never forgets it for the rest of his days. “Just you, my songbird.”


End file.
